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“Vede! See for yourself. It is finished.’’ 







AN UNKNOWN 
MASTER 

AND 

OTHER STORIES 

BY 

JOSEPH A. MURPHY 

(I 



BOSTON 

THE PILOT PUBLISHING CO. 
1916 



Copyright, 1916, 

By j. A. Murphy 



MAY 23 1916 

©Cl. A 4813 16 

1 1 


CONTENTS. 


I.— AN UNKNOWN MASTER 5 

IL— THE PURLOINED STORY 16 

III. — THE MISANTHROPE 26 

IV. — BREAD ON THE WATERS 39 

V. — CALLED AS AARON 45 

VI. — THE LOST GOSPEL 55 

VII. — REFORM OF THE UNION CHURCH. ... 71 

VIII. — DENDERAH 81 

IX. — UNPATRIOTIC MRS. DACEY 100 

X. — COWARDLY FRA LUIS 108 

XL— THE DOUBLE TRAITOR 123 

XII. — THE BURYING OF UNCLE 137 

XIII. — NOBLESSE OBLIGE 146 


XIV.— RAVELLI 


168 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


‘‘Vede ! See for yourself. It is finished.” 

Frontispiece 


Facing Page 

**1 recommended especially my flock to the 

care of the Crucified.” 51 


‘‘He thought with terror of the hideous ; 

Turkish jail.” 68 

“Padre, I am sorry to announce to you that 

you are under arrest.” 133 


“No,” answered Reggy, tapping his suitcase 
lightly with his toe. “Uncle is right 
here.” 


140 


V 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER 


FOREWORD. 


The stories collected in this volume 
appeared originally in The Pilot under 
the pen name of Joseph Carey. Since 
their publication, the Author has 
been urged by many readers to pres- 
ent them in book form, and accord- 
ingly he offers them now substanti- 
ally as they appeared in The Pilot. 
The Author takes this opportunity to 
express his gratitude to all, who, by 
their kindly criticism and coopera- 
tion, have helped him to bring out 
this little work. 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


For early Spring it was very warm. The after- 
noon sun beat down heavily on the dull brown walls 
of the little monastery of Capra, but they were built 
to withstand just such assaults, and within all was 
dark and cool and stilL 

The cortile was the weak place in the fortifica- 
tion, and there the sun made triumphant entry. It 
fell upon the fountain and drove the gold-fish to the 
shade of the lily-pads; it changed the soft, falling 
spray into ever-varying rainbows ; it penetrated the 
dark coolness of the cloister through the many 
arches; it threw great and fantastic shadows from 
the palms across the pebbled pathway. No stir of 
life was there save the long procession of ants to 
feed upon the heart of the rose, and the wild bees 
whirring senselessly up and around the old water 
spout long out of use; no sound, save the spray of 
the fountain falling softly on the immemorial moss. 
Even the air, heavy with the scent of orange blos- 
soms, seemed languid and drowsy, and the occa- 
sional distant barking of some village mongrel 
seemed only to emphasize the fact that within the 
monastery walls, as Padre Guardiano had put it, 
there reigned the peace of God. 


5 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


Suddenly the stillness of the monastery was 
rudely broken. A high pitched, shrill voice rang 
out : ‘‘Miracolo ! Miracolo 

No one knew for a scandalized moment from 
just what quarter it came, but again it shrilled out 
in the afternoon air. Fra Tommaso, the porter, 
heard it and, dropping the sandals he was mending, 
scudded along the path towards the monastery as 
fast as he could. Miracles did not occur every day, 
and he wasn’t going to miss this one. Portly Bene- 
detto, the cook, lumbered forth from the lower re- 
gions and in his wake came Fra Filippo, the scullion, 
carrying, in his confusion, his paring knife and a 
dish full of vegetables which he had caught up. Fra 
Giuseppe deserted the beloved vines which he had 
been cultivating, and hastened to join his brethren. 
The cortile was soon a scene of animation. The 
choir frati gathered around Padre Guardiano in an 
excited group. What had happened? Had they 
heard aright? 

‘‘Miracolo, Miracolo,” again the shrill voice 
echoed throughout the monastery. The sound came 
from above. 

“It is the Signor Artista who breaks the si- 
lence,” said the scandalized Padre Guardiano. “Has 
he gone mad?” and slowly he began to climb the 
great stone steps that led from a corner of the 
cortile to the upper story of the monastery. The 
Frati trooped after him, falling in line almost in- 
stinctively, all of them, from the seniors down to 


6 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


Filippo, the scullion, still clutching his paring knife 
and vegetables. 

The din above them never ceased. They paused 
on the first corridor near the priests’ rooms till Pa- 
dre Guardiano got his breath, and then started the 
steep ascent to the upper story, a great, bare, un- 
finished hall. Padre Guardiano pushed open the door 
at the head of the stairs and entered. Sure enough 
it was the Signor Artista who was causing the rum- 
pus. There he was, hopping around like mad, shout- 
ing “Miracolo,” and pausing now and then to gaze 
ecstatically at a picture before him. Padre Guar- 
diano looked at the canvas himself, and his eyes 
grew wide with astonishment. 

The Signor Artista was a recent addition to the 
establishment of this little monastery of Capra, 
which, as everyone knows, is miles away from any 
place, out in the Marches. The nearest big town is 
Ferrara. Thither the Padre Guardiano had repaired 
recently for a great disputa at the court of the Duca 
Alfonso. Candidates for the doctorate in philosophy 
and theology from Rimini, Ravenna, and Ferrara 
were to be present, and, as a man well versed in 
scholastic doctrines. Padre Guardiano had been in- 
vited by the Duca to assist in the examinations. 

While there he had stayed in the monastery of 
his brethren, according to the Holy Rule. He was 
a man of excellent taste as well as of learning and 
piety, and he had found the magnificent religious 
pictures which decorated the cloister of the Ferrara 


7 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


monastery a never ceasing inspiration for his medi- 
tation and spiritual comfort. If he could only do 
something like this for his brethren in lonely Capra 
— if he could only cover the white-washed walls with 
this open Bible which even the illiterate could read — 
he would satisfy the desire of his heart. 

So he looked around for an artist, of whom 
there was a plenty in Ferrara, and when he came 
back to Capra, in his train together with Filippo, the 
lay brother, who had just finished his novitiate, was 
the Signor Artista v/ho was now causing the hubbub. 
He ran to salute the Padre Guardiano — ^his eyes 
danced. His whole body shook with excitement, and 
he spoke rapidly. 

'Tadre Guardiano, this morning I returned from 
Ferrara as you know. I had left the picture of the 
Madonna half finished. Santa Caterina was done, 
San Francesco was finished. But for the Madonna 
I had no inspiration. I could not do it, so I went to 
Ferrara for a rest. I covered the picture with can- 
vas, carefully. Fra Filippo helped me. I went — I 
came back — I uncovered my picture, and Vede ! See 
for yourself. It is finished. It is beautiful — divine V* 

Padre Guardiano picked his way carefully 
through the artistic litter of cartoons, brushes, 
strips of canvas and old rags, until he stood in 
front of the great canvas in the middle of the room. 
He gazed long in astonishment, for Padre Guardiano 
knew art. He saw Santa Caterina and San Fran- 
cesco kneeling on either side of the Madonna, very 


t 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


respectable work for a second rate artist, but the 
Madonna, the best at Ferrara could not equal. He 
saw at once its supreme excellence. The saints 
were characterless and insipid, but the Madonna 
glowed like a jewel in warmth and richness of color. 
She was indeed the fairest of the daughters of men. 
She seemed to live there on the canvas. Her radiant 
eyes were downcast, her lips had a smile of tender 
innocence, her dark hair was crowned with twelve 
stars, her robe was as blue as the azure sky. She 
seemed to float in air, so ethereal was her poise. She 
was not a Madonna conceived in the earthly imagina- 
tion of the ordinary painter ; she was the product of 
a spiritual mind, of an inspired artist who somehow 
had transferred some touch of heavenly radiance 
from his own soul to the canvas. 

'Tt is very beautiful,” said Padre Guardiano 
softly. 

‘Tt is a miracle,” cried Signor Artista enthusias- 
tically. ‘‘No hands but an angel's could paint thus, 
unless”, crossing himself, “Maestro Giotto has 
come back to life. It is worthy of Raphael or Peru- 
gino or our own master, Garofolo of Ferrara. It is 
a mystery — z. miracle.” 

“There is indeed some mystery here, Signor Ar- 
tista, and though I will not cry ‘Miracolo' so 
promptly as you,” the Padre Guardiano's face took 
on a thoughtful expression, “I cannot account for it. 
‘Miracula non multiplicantur sine ratione,' ” he said 
musingly, “which means, my dear Signor, that we 


9 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


are not to cry ‘miracle' unless we're sure. See, here 
is some of the very azure blue which the mysterious 
artist used," and from the litter at his feet he picked 
up a great earthen dish, stained a deep blue from 
the paint. 

Just then there was a crash. Fra Filippo, the 
scullion, had dropped both the knife and the dish 
of vegetables he was carrying ; at the same moment 
Fra Benedetto, the cook, threw up his hands in 
amazement, as he looked at the blue-stained earthen 
dish. “My mixing bowl!" he cried. “I've been 
searching for it this past week." 

“Well," said the Padre Guardiano, dismissing 
them all, “we must look into this matter more 
closely, and meanwhile, my dear brethren, we have 
our usual duties to attend to." 

The Frati disappeared, volubly discussing, the 
‘miracolo,' all save poor Filippo, who, red with shame, 
was on his knees trying to collect the fragments of 
the dish he had so awkwardly dropped. Padre Guar- 
diano, amused at his efforts, said kindly, “Fra Fi- 
lippo, bear this dish back to the kitchen, and see that 
it is well scoured. Never mind the one you've 
broken." 

“Very well. Padre, and thank you," he an- 
swered. 

The Padre Guardiano looked at him keenly a 
moment. 

“You are a Tuscan, are you not? I should think 
so from your speech." 


10 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


*‘Si, Padre,” he answered, lifting his head. 
was born in Florence.” 

*‘Ah, Florence,” said the Padre Guardiano, half 
in reverie. ‘1 spent many happy years there. I 
lived at the monastery at Fiesole. You know Fiesole, 
of course, and perhaps you knew a young Florentine 
painter who lived in the town, called Bernardo da 
Firenze, a very successful portrait painter in those 
days.” 

“Si, Padre,” answered Fra Filippo faintly, still 
confused from his mishap. “I knew him once — a 
long time ago, it seems.” 

Padre Guardiano smiled encouragement, and 
Filippo continued. 

“A very successful portrait painter, at least so 
said the critics,” waving his hand deprecatingly, “but 
a very proud and haughty man.” 

“How !” exclaimed the Guardiano, surprised. “I 
never heard that.” 

“Very haughty, indeed,” resumed Filippo with 
a stronger voice. Evidently he had not liked this 
Bernardo. “His whole soul was bent on success, 
mere artistic success. He lived merely for his art, 
that it might fill to the measure his self-conceit. 
He painted slowly and carefully, determined to make 
each work a masterpiece. Yes, I knew him well, or 
thought I did.” 

“He had some trouble, some diificulty later,” 
urged the Guardiano. “You interest me. I never 
heard the details. It drove him — ” 


11 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


‘‘Yes, Reverend Father, Donna Isabella ordered 
him to paint her portrait.” 

“Ah, yes,” responded the Guardiano thought- 
fully, “and he failed, and that discouraged him.” 

“No, Padre, he did not fail, although that was 
the story Donna Isabella gave out. It was the great- 
est picture he ever painted. Bernardo was proud 
and ambitious, but he was no flatterer. He read the 
soul of Donna Isabella in her beautiful eyes, and 
saw cruelty in the flne lines of her mouth, — and what 
he saw, he painted. She threatened, she cajoled, but 
he would not change the picture. He had toiled and 
slaved over it. It was his greatest work. She, when 
it was flnished, with her sweetest smile compli- 
mented Signor Bernardo on his masterpiece, and 
handed him in a silken purse the price stipulated, 
two hundred scudi.” 

“ ‘The picture is mine. Signor Bernardo V ” she 
queried sweetly. 

“ ‘Yours, lady,’ ” he answered, bowing. 

“Bending over swiftly, she seized the knife he 
had used for mixing colors, and calmly slashed the 
canvas into shreds before him.” 

“Ah,” said Padre Guardiano thoughtfully, “a 
cruel revenge, that. But we have seen since of what 
Donna Isabella is capable. And what became of 
Signor Bernardo then?” 

“He sickened of painting. He turned from the 
emptiness and vanity of the world. He became a. .” 

“Religious. I thought so,” interrupted Padre 


12 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


Guardiano. “At least I recall hearing so. And he 
— er — continues painting?'' 

“No, Reverend Father," answered Filippo, “he 
resolved that he would not paint again till he had 
learned the lesson of humility, till he had overcome 
his enormous pride. His novice master agreed and 
he promised that for three years — I have broken 
my promise. Reverend Father," he cried in distress. 
“My three years are not over yet, and Father Supe- 
rior of Ferrara was so careful to keep his part of the 
secret when he sent me here to decorate the cloisters 
that he said he would not tell even you until — indeed 
— indeed I could not resist. I would not have minded 
so much San Francesco or Santa Caterina, but when 
I saw the Madonna so poorly done, I thought for Her 
honor I could add a little touch here and there, and 
when I started I could not stop." 

“It is always so, when we yield to temptation," 
said the Padre Guardiano gravely. “For your pen- 
ance you will recite the Seven Penitential Psalms 
thrice on bended knees. Remain in your place in the 
kitchen until your three years are over. How long?" 

“Another month. Reverend Father," he an- 
swered humbly. 

“And then," said the Padre Guardiano, smiling 
gently, “I shall find work for you to do. We must 
not neglect the talent which God has given you. I 
thought I recognized you when you broke the dish, 
but I was not sure." 

Filippo knelt and kissed Padre Guardiano's ex- 


i: 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


tended hand, and went back to the kitchen, happy in 
his pardon. 

Signor Artista, who had caused the hubbub, was 
sent for, and all was explained to him. At first he 
was amazed, and then disappointed. 

‘‘Alas,'' he cried. “It is not a miracle after all." 

“Yes," responded Padre Guardiano softly, “a 
very great miracle. A miracle of self-sacrifice, of 
humility, of abnegation. ‘Leaving all they followed 
Him.' Think of Bernardo da Firenze at this moment 
a scullion in the monastery kitchen." 

“True," said Signor Artista. “I had not thought 
of that. Dio mio, I could not do it." 

“Will you stay here and work with him ?" asked 
the Guardiano. “I would like to have the cloister 
and the chapel decorated. There is enough work 
for two." 

“Stay?" cried the artist delightedly, “I will stay 
to learn from him his wonderful art. Can I ever 
learn it. Father? There is spirituality in his brush. 
Why, he paints as if the heavens were open to him ; 
as if he actually saw." 

“Perhaps he does see," said the Padre smiling, 
“as Brother Angelico saw when he painted at San 
Marco. Ah, Signor Artista, there are greater les- 
sons than art to learn. Does not our Lord say: 
‘Blessed are the clean of heart for they shall see 
God?' " 

Signor Artista dropped his eyes. “I am not 
worthy to mix his colors," he said humbly. 


14 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


And that is how the cloister and chapel of the 
lonely monastery of Capra came to be decorated. 
The place is off the beaten path, but the pictures 
are well worth a visit if you ever go to Ferrara. Art 
critics tell us they are the work of two men, one of 
the school of Ferrara, a very ordinary painter, the 
other of the Tuscan school. An Unknown Master. 



15 


THE PURLOINED STORY. 


‘‘That may be very true, Fr. Hugh, but this Don 
Mark is original. I insist upon that. If he isn't 
original, no one is,” and Arthur Stinson, Professor 
of English in the local high school, brought the book 
he held in his hand down on the table with a re- 
sounding whack. It was a volume of short stories 
by Don Mark which had just come from the press. 

“Tut, tut,” answered his friend Fr. Hugh, argu- 
mentatively. “Original indeed! My dear fellow, 
there's nothing new under the sun — ^not even in the 
short stories of your favorite Don Mark. You're a 
teacher of English. You've read the best authorities 
on the short story, and you know better than I do 
that the number of plots is very limited, and that 
there isn't one of them which hasn't been used over 
and over again.” 

The English professor threw up his hands. 
“Heresy, Father, heresy — rank heresy,” he cried. 
“Don't you think that Poe was original, and Haw- 
thorne ? Why Poe tells us himself in his ‘Philosophy 
of Composition' that the writer who dispenses with 
originality is false to himself, because originality is 
an obvious and easily attainable source of interest.” 

“You overwhelm me,” said Fr. Hugh with gen- 


16 


THE PURLOINED STORY, 


tie irony. think I know the essay, the one in 
which he lays bare the scaffolding of ‘The Raven.’ 
How do we know that it isn’t all a post-factum anal- 
ysis of his masterpiece made by Poe himself? Why, 
he does away with all poetic inspiration, and makes 
the poet like a carpenter putting up a ready-made 
house or a shoemaker pegging away at old shoes. 
Personally, I’m tempted to think that there’s as 
much imagination in that essay as there is in ‘The 
Raven’ itself.” 

“That’s worse than heresy. Father, that’s scep- 
ticism, the worst kind of literary scepticism,” re- 
torted the Professor. “But, to come back to Don 
Mark, whose book I brought over for you to read, 
I strongly maintain, in spite of your pooh-poohing, 
that he’s an original writer, and I know you’ll agree 
with me when you’ve read him. I’ve been following 
him as his stories come out in the magazines, and 
he certainly has great originality. Sometimes his 
plots are complicated, sometimes very simple, but 
his vivacity, his language, his style, in a word, his 
originality. ..” 

“What is original ?” interrupted Fr. Hugh. Eng- 
lish literature was his hobby and he loved to tease 
the Professor. “Why the words aren’t original — ^he 
got them somewhere else. His plots aren’t original, 
because if analyzed they will be found to have been 
used before. Is he the first to think those thoughts, 
and write them ? Why, Aristotle told us all that we 
could know about the short story, and you mean to 


17 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


tell me that this twentieth century youngster is orig- 
inal because the magazines pay him a great price, 
and because, forsooth, a big publishing house is glad 
to bring out his books ?’" And Fr. Hugh chuckled. 

‘'Now, Father, I've a good mind to take this book 
home with me as a punishment, though I know it 
will please you if you read it. Honestly you don’t 
deserve it. Why,” he went on enthusiastically, “Don 
Mark is simply filled with the new spirit of the West. 
No Easterner could write that book. You get the 
mountains, the valleys, the wide sweep of the plains. 
You can hear the hoof -beat of the horses galloping 
across his pages. You can see the cowboys driving 
the cattle before them. Even in his pictures of city 
life it is of San Francisco he writes, with its atmos- 
phere more Continental than American. His breezi- 
ness is of the Pacific, not of the Atlantic. There is 
a joyousness and a freedom of life pictured, yet al- 
ways delicately. He makes the old Padres live again 
in the missions, he brings you through the rose gar- 
dens of Pasadena — ” 

“Hold on, hold on,” cried Fr. Hugh, waving his 
hand helplessly against the storm. “What can a poor 
priest do against an eloquent Professor of English ?” 

But the Professor would not be silenced. “Only 
a man brought up in that atmosphere could so faith- 
fully reproduce it. I have read something about his 
life. He began in Dallas, where he worked on a 
newspaper. There he began writing his stories. 
They were original — just what the people wanted — 


18 


THE PURLOINED STORY, 


and he was an immediate success. Then he heard 
the call of the big city, and went to San Francisco 
where he wrote for the Examiner. His stories are a 
real transcript of Western life '' 

‘'And therefore, not original,” interjected Fr. 
Hugh triumphantly. 

“Let me finish, Father, a transcript of life 
passed through the imagination of the writer, and 
therefore original. And, by the way, Father,” and 
he pointed an accusing finger at Fr. Hugh, “why this 
attack on originality ? I'm surprised at you. I hap- 
pened to glance at the Catalogue of St. Lawrence 
College the other day, and I noticed that in eighteen 
ninety-eight the Barton Medal for the most original 
story was awarded to Hugh Donovan.” 

Fr. Hugh threw up his hands. “Thus are our 
youthful indiscretions revealed, and the sins of the 
past come back upon us. It's come to a pretty pass 
when our curious parishioners go looking up our 
college records,” he said severely. 

“Now, Father,” remonstrated the Professor. 

“And at that you haven't got it straight,” went 
on Fr. Hugh, with a twinkle in his eye, “for the 
fact is that for the same story I got two medals — 
the first and the last winner of that particular prize 
to be so honored. I'll show them to you.” 

Going over to his desk, he poked around for a 
couple of minutes, and then drew forth a couple of 
small boxes, held together by an elastic band. He 
opened them, and sure enough, there were two med- 


19 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


als, identical, with his name, the date, and the col- 
lege name inscribed on each. 

‘^What in the world did they make two for, just 
alike?'' cried the Professor in surprise. don't see 
any sense in that." 

‘‘Well, I'll tell you how it happened. A class- 
mate, Dick Grant, and I were rivals and yet friends. 
Dick was especially good in the languages while I 
went in more for mathematics and science. He was 
a good French and German scholar, knew the clas- 
sics well, and was also an excellent English writer 
for he had a brilliant imagination. When we were in 
senior, we both went in for this Barton Medal for 
the most original short story. I really didn't care to 
go in for it, because I felt that Dick was by far my 
superior in this work, but the President insisted on 
my entering. He didn't like Dick, but I did. True, 
Dick was proud and sensitive, easily offended, and 
would never offer an apology or explanation; but I 
knew him well, and in spite of the fact that we were 
rivals, we remained good friends. In fact we often 
worked together to our mutual advantage. 

“The night before we handed in our original 
short stories we met at the College. Dick took his 
manuscript from his pocket, after greeting me, and 
said, ‘I think I have something good here. It's been 
in my head a long time, but I never wrote it before. 
Do you mind if I read it to you ?' 

“ ‘Why,' I answered, ‘I'd be delighted.' 

“So Dick read it. It was a very ingenious story 


20 


THE PURLOINED STORY. 


indeed. Dick always wrote cleverly, but the clever- 
ness of the writing was not so obvious in this story 
as in some of his efforts, for the interest of this 
story depended on the plot. The reader was mysti- 
fied in the very beginning, and interested too, and 
the interest was well sustained to the end. The last 
few words of the story cleared up the whole thing. 
It was a dandy plot, and I congratulated Dick on it, 
and told him that I would hand mine in as a matter 
of form. I honestly meant it ; I didn't think I had a 
ghost of a chance. 

‘‘Sure enough, on Commencement Day the Bar- 
ton Medal was awarded to Richard Grant." 

“But your name is in the Catalogue," remon- 
strated the Professor. “I saw it." 

“Hold on a while," said Fr. Hugh good-na- 
turedly, “Grant's story was published in the Com- 
mencement number of the College paper. Some fool 
of a Professor, like yourself, read it and immediately 
wrote to the President. He insisted that the chief 
merit of the story was the very ingenious plot. He 
pointed out that, while the style and language were 
original, the whole plot was borrowed from a short 
story published about fifteen years before in Black- 
wood's. He gave the exact date. 

“The President was furious. He never liked 
Dick, as I told you, and he sat down and wrote a 
scathing letter to the lad. Said that he regretted 
he did not know this before Commencement; that 
it would have cost him his degree ; and that he was 


21 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


having another medal struck to be awarded to me; 
and that my name would be put on the roll as the 
successful contestant. 

knew nothing about all this till Dick came and 
told me one night. He was broken-hearted. He 
handed me the letter of the President, and sat silent 
while I read it. 

“I was indignant at the severity of its tone. 
Dick almost cried, when he saw my sympathetic 
attitude. 

“ ‘So you believe in me,' he said. ‘You believe 
I was honest in this?' 

“ ‘Of course I do,' I cried, taking his hand. ‘Con- 
found their old prizes for originality. I hate the 
word. This is some terrible misunderstanding.' 

“ ‘Thank you, Hugh,' he said quietly, ‘it is kind 
and generous of you. I knew I could trust you, but 
the accusation made is true — true in a sense.' 

“ ‘What?' I cried amazed. 

“ ‘It's true,' he answered. ‘I told you that the 
story was in my head — way back in my head — for a 
long, long time. I never stopped to think how it 
came there. It seemed to me flesh of my flesh, my 
very own. When the President's letter came to me, 
I raged and stormed — I was nearly crazy. And then 
a terrible fear came over me. What if it were true ! 
I looked at the letter again, saw Blackwood's and 
the date — I grew faint. There was a bound set of 
Blackwood's in the attic. I had not seen it for 
years. I rushed upstairs. The door was locked, but 


22 


THE PURLOINED STORY, 


I forced it in, and sure enough, the volume was 
there. I opened it and read — read my own story, 
substantially the same. I suppose I had seen it as a 
youngster, I don’t remember. 

1 knew at once the impossibility of explain- 
ing. I never explain; I’d rather take the medicine 
any time. I suppose I’m infernally proud. 

** Then I know the President never liked me. 
I did have some notion of going to the Seminary — 
that’s all over, of course, now. He wouldn’t give 
me a letter of recommendation. I’m going to leave 
town and start somewhere else. I mailed the diplo- 
ma back to the College this morning, and I’m through 
with them.’ 

‘‘ ‘Dick,’ I begged, ‘Don’t be a fool. I’ll go 
with you and put this before him. We’ll straighten 
it out. . . .’ 

“ ‘No, Hugh,’ he said sadly. ‘Do you know, I 
think this is the will of God. I have been in doubt 
about my vocation for some time, and have prayed 
earnestly for a sign. This cross is my sign. My way 
to the Seminary is barred through no fault of mine. 
I accept the cross and resign myself to His Holy 
Will. But I can’t stand it around here any longer. 
I’ve got to get away from here, so good-bye, Hugh 
— God bless you, and pray for me.’ 

“When he had gone I found that he had left 
the second medal, this with the dent in it. He had 
his own name effaced and mine engraved in its place. 

“I was so grieved and heartsore at the wretched 


23 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


outcome of the whole original short story competi- 
tion, that I hurled the miserable medal across the 
room. See the dent in it. I threw myself on the 
couch crying, because I had always hoped to have 
Dick with me in the Seminary.” Fr. Hugh paused. 

“So that's why you stormed when I praised Don 
Mark for originality. That's why you don't like the 
word. Well, I don't blame you after that expe- 
rience. But I'll praise him for something else, for 
I'm determined you shall read him. I'll call him a 
moralist. That should appeal to you. He is a pop- 
ular moralist. He shows the reward of virtue, and 
the punishment of vice, he — '' 

Just then the Professor's eye wandered over to 
a pile of books on Fr. Hugh's desk. On the top was a 
volume very much like the “Short Stories'' on which 
he was expatiating so eloquently. He jumped to his 
feet and looked at the book. Sure enough, it was a 
copy like his own, fresh from the press, “Short 
Stories by Don Mark.'' 

“Fr. Hugh,'' he exclaimed. “You — I hesitate 
to call your Reverence a rascal — ^but you've been 
reading my author all along, and just drawing me 
out.'' 

Fr. Hugh chuckled. “That's a little autograph 
copy I received from the author himself recently,'' 
he said. “I think he's great myself, but I was 
afraid I might be partial.'' 


24 


THE PURLOINED STORY, 


The Professor opened the book and read on the 
fly-leaf, inscribed in a bold hand : 

‘To my dear friend and rival of College Days, 
Father Hugh, from his classmate, Dick Grant.” 



25 


THE MISANTHROPE. 


The circular said that the ample veranda of the 
Pilgrim Hotel commanded a fine view of the sea, 
and, as I sat there on a warm summer afternoon, I 
was glad to see that for once at least an advertise- 
ment spoke truly. While I was enjoying the fresh 
ocean breeze, I noticed a runabout coming up the 
winding road which leads to the hotel, and I thought 
I recognized the man who was driving. I looked 
again, and sure enough, it was my old classmate, Ar- 
thur Searle. 

I had not seen him since we were at Latin 
School, and I jumped from my chair to greet him as 
he came up the steps. Like a flash the thought came 
to me — “I wonder if the Roman collar will make any 
difference,” for I had always thought Searle a bit of 
a bigot. Not that we had ever talked religion, — boys 
never do, — but one Sunday when I asked him to go 
skating he answered priggishly, 

*‘0n Sunday ? Go skating on Sunday ?” 

‘Why yes,” I answered. “Why not? What in 
the world do you do all day ?” 

“Oh, read the Bible, or take a walk,” he an- 
swered. “IPs an awful day to kill,” he added with 
a sigh. 


26 


THE MISANTHROPE. 


don't see why you can't go skating if you 
can take a walk," I grumbled. “What's the differ- 
ence ?" 

“My father wouldn't permit it," he answered 
shortly, and the subject was dropped. 

Small grounds, I know, for thinking him a bigot, 
but the impression was made, although we remained 
always good friends at Latin School. After gradua- 
tion, however, we drifted apart ; he went to Harvard 
and I to Boston College, — and I soon lost track of 
him. 

As I stood hesitating for a moment, he spied me. 
The same frank, boyish smile lit up his face, and he 
came up toward me with hand outstretched. 

“So you recognize me," I said extending my 
hand. 

“Certainly, Father," he answered. I experienced 
a mild shock. “You haven't changed a bit, — a little 
stouter, that's all. I'm mighty glad to see you here. 
I didn't think I'd know a soul in this place." 

“I'm only down for the day," I answered. 

“And I'm here on business, and just dropped in 
for lunch," he explained. “Will you join me?" 

“Gladly," I answered. “I feel just like talking 
about old times. I'm happy to see you so prosper- 
ous," I said pointing to the machine. 

He threw back his head and laughed in the same 
delightful way that I had known years back. 

“Yes, God has been good to me. Father," he an- 
swered, “in many ways." 


27 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


I was puzzled again. In the old days he had not 
been particularly religious; in fact, the strict Cal- 
vinism of his father repelled him, as he had once 
told me in a burst of confidence. Yet here he was 
thanking God like a — ^well, like a Christian. 

‘When did you get through Harvard ?” I asked, 
feeling my way, for I felt a bit ashamed that I had 
so completely lost touch with one of my old friends. 

He laughed again. “I never got through,” he 
answered. “My father died when I was in sopho- 
more, and that finished my college career. His fi- 
nancial affairs were so involved that it took me some 
time to straighten out the tangle, and when ac- 
counts were settled, I found only enough to give 
mother a small income. I had to shift for myself. 
We sold our house; mother went to live with her 
sister at Gloucester ; and I took to a boarding house, 
and work.” 

“Boarding house!” I said curiously. I could 
never imagine Searle, who was one of the wealthiest 
men in the class, in a boarding house, and I went 
on jokingly, “Call it at least a hotel. What! You, 
Arthur Searle, aristocrat, exclusive of exclusives, in 
a boarding house ! The ideas are incongruous,” and 
I laughed at the picture. 

“What a fool I was in those days,” he said mus- 
ingly. “I got happily over that when I had to rub 
elbows with the crowd, and my experience in the 
boarding house made a good democrat of me. That 
old notion I had about Yankee aristocracy was all 


28 


THE MISANTHROPE, 


rot, and my aristocratic friends were pretty scarce 
when I lost my money and needed them.” 

To say that I was surprised at hearing Searle 
talk that way is putting it mildly. I wondered what 
changed his ideas so radically. 

“That boarding house was all right,” he con- 
tinued. “I wish all would-be aristocrats could get 
a course there. It would do them more good than 
college. However, Fm glad Fm through with it,” 
and again came that irresistible, infectious laugh. 
It was the same old Searle, and my heart warmed 
toward him. 

“Tell me about it,” I said. “Fd like to hear some 
of your experiences there.” 

“It couldn’t be told,” he answered. “You’d 
have to live there. Oh, here’s the waiter. Yes, 
lunch for two, and we’ll eat out here on the veranda. 
Isn’t the view great! I love the sea.” 

“You must have met some characters in that 
boarding house,” I said returning to the old theme. 
I was always on the lookout for a story, and was 
especially anxious to know what experience had 
made Searle, blue-blood and aristocrat, a man of the 
people. 

“Oh, they were a jolly crowd,” he answered. 
“Mostly clerks, newspaper men, impecunious au- 
thors, bad poets but good fellows, an artist who 
rarely sold a picture and was always in debt, and, oh 
yes, the Frenchman, the miserly, unsociable Mis- 
anthrope as we called him. 


29 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


“He was the only Catholic in the crowd. But, 
Father, you know well, that we didn’t take religion 
seriously enough to allow that to make any differ- 
ence. He always blessed himself before and after 
meals, and though we joked about it, I think we 
rather admired him for it. He used to get up every 
morning to go to Mass, too. We didn’t know at first 
where he went mornings, and” (Searle went on quiz- 
zically) “his matutinal peregrinations were a contin- 
ual theme of speculation.” 

“Hold on, there,” I gasped, “let me take a note 
of that, will you. It sounds like one of Stuffy’s 
English classes. I’ll forget that ‘matutinal pere- 
grinations’ ii I don’t write it on my cuff.” 

“We often joked about his turning out at that 
ungodly hour,” he continued smiling. “Some said he 
sold papers, others that he had a milk route ; others 
that he went around collecting old junk; but our 
Physical Culturist, who took a constitutional every 
morning, discovered him coming out of the French 
Church just around the corner from the house, and 
although we publicly dubbed our Misanthrope a fool 
for losing his sleep, privately we rather admired 
him for that particular thing at least. 

“Otherwise, however, we despised him. He was 
a foreigner and we were Americans, — some of us 
from England and the Provinces, but that didn’t 
seem to count. Then he was old and we were young ; 
he was suppressed and restrained, we were buoyant 
and enthusiastic ; we were talkative, he rarely spoke. 


30 


THE MISANTHROPE. 


I often imagined he would have left us if it had not 
been for the nearness of the French Church. 

really didn’t like the man. I know a man 
generally when I see one, and I find that impres- 
sions made when I first size up a person are almost 
always confirmed when I know him better. The 
very first time that I set eyes on the little French- 
man, I labelled him ‘Miser’ and ‘Misanthrope.’ He 
was undersized and round-shouldered. His skin was 
like leather, wrinkled with age and worry. His eyes 
were small, and I thought I saw the grasping spirit 
within peering through the ‘windows of the soul.’ ” 

“Hold up,” I cried again, reaching for my pen- 
cil. “Let me get that down — ‘windows of the soul’ — 
that’s good.” 

He laughed again, but shortly, for he had grown 
very serious. 

“I think that was the chief reason we all dis- 
liked him, he was so mean and stingy. He wouldn’t 
buy a paper, but would wait until one was dropped, 
and then furtively would take it to his room. He 
ate only two meals a day, and for the other I suspect 
he made some shift in his room or went without. He 
pressed and mended his own clothing, shined his own 
shoes, never gave a tip, and so he saved and 
scrimped in every way. 

“The landlady rather liked him! ‘He pays his 
bill promptly,’ she remarked several times for our 
benefit, and added with emphasis, ‘He is a gentle- 
man.’ This was also for our benefit, for he never 


31 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


complained about the table. She rather liked the de- 
ference he showed her in his polite, foreign way, 
and she suspected he was a sort of Marquis or Count, 
fallen on evil days. Every week, too, he received 
a foreign letter, which he eagerly awaited and for 
which he seemed to live. It was the brightest thing 
in his life, and if the mails were delayed, he would 
be terribly cast down. 

‘‘We often wished we had his money. True, I 
don't suppose he earned much, for he was only a 
clerk, and not over-paid, but then, he never spent 
anything, never went anywhere. No theatre, no 
vacation, no recreation of any kind. His life was 
passed, during the few years we knew him, in the 
office, the Church and the boarding house. He had 
apparently no friends, and wanted none, — ^a con- 
firmed Misanthrope.” 

“A strange character,” I commented. “I must 
make a story out of him, with the aid of those valu- 
able notes on my cuff.” Inwardly I thought, what 
a pity that such a representative of the Faith 
should have been the only Catholic in that group, — 
a Misanthrope, a Miser. 

“Strange, indeed. Father,” he agreed. “But 
wait until you hear the rest. 

“He finally got sick. He had been ailing for 
some time, but he would not see a doctor because 
that would cost too much. His face grew more and 
more weazened ; a hacking cough hung over the win- 
ter. Spring came, and still he coughed through the 


32 


THE MISANTHROPE. 


long nights. Summer came, and when the poor man 
was forced to take to bed, I found myself pitying 
him. 

‘‘Although I didn't like the old fellow, I knew 
how little attention he would receive in a boarding- 
house, and I couldn't see a dog suffer as he did with- 
out trying to help. So I forced myself on him, for 
at first he seemed unwilling to receive anyone. I 
brought him fruit and some good port wine. He 
used to read a great deal, but since he was now too 
weak to keep that up, I volunteered to do it for him. 
His face lit up with pleasure. 

“ ‘What shall I read ?' I asked. ‘Here's the Even- 
ing Post I brought with me.' 

“ ‘Read, read,' he answered eagerly, ‘the Gospel 
of St. Luke, the first part, I love it.' 

“I was amazed. I always thought that the Bible 
was forbidden to Catholics. My astonishment grew 
when I saw the old man's lips move as I read the 
canticle : ‘My soul doth magnify the Lord,' or 
‘Blessed be the Lord God of Israel.' Why, he knew 
that Gospel of St. Luke almost by heart. 

“Then I read Fr. Faber for him, and Fr. Matu- 
rin, and the Imitation of Christ. I found the books 
a bore at first, but I rather got to like them after a 
while, especially Fr. Maturin's. I managed to spend 
some little time with him nearly every evening. To 
tell the truth, I had not intended to be so generous, 
but I found the old man so downcast once, after I 
had remained away a couple of evenings, that I re- 


33 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


solved not to miss again, even if I stayed only a few 
minutes. 

‘‘Little by little he gave his confidence to me, 
when he learned to trust me, and many a talk we 
had. I learned something of his previous history. 
He told me he had been, only a few years before, 
junior partner in a small manufacturing concern. A 
good part of his money was in it, and when the con- 
cern went to the wall, he lost everything, because he 
insisted on using all he had laid aside to pay off the 
debts of the firm. Like a fool, as I thought, but an 
heroic one, he had waived the privileges of bank- 
ruptcy and settled all fully. 

“One evening he happened to mention his son. 

“ ‘Ah,' I said, ‘your son. You never spoke of 
him before.' 

“His wrinkled face was transfigured with joy 
and love, in much the same way as I had seen it after 
a visit from the priest who came with the Blessed 
Sacrament every week. 

“ ‘A good boy,' he said with emotion. ‘A very 
good boy.' 

“ ‘I don't see what good he is to you,' I an- 
swered indignantly. ‘I'm surprised that he doesn't 
come to see you or do something for you.' 

“ ‘Ah,' he said smiling, ‘he is far away, in an- 
other country, in school. You wouldn't understand.’ 

“ ‘I understand this much,' I said, ‘that he's 
pretty selfish to stay in school when you have to 
suffer so much and work so hard. I had to quit 


34 


THE MISANTHROPE. 


school when my people needed me, much as I would 
like to have finished/ 

'' ‘Ah,' said the little Frenchman, smiling, (how 
I had grown to like him), ‘he knows nothing about 
the failure. He had gone far away before the finan- 
cial crisis came, and I never told him. I did not want 
to worry him,' and he made a passionate effort to 
raise himself in bed, ‘I would give my life to see 
him through the — but you would not understand.' 

“ ‘See here, Mr. Frenchman,' I said, ‘I under- 
stand this much, that you're pretty much like the 
saints I have heard about but never seen. We're 
a crowd of thoughtless fools, and I want to apologize 
for myself and the others for any mean remarks 
we ever made.' 

“ ‘Oh, no,' he cried, ‘don't — the boys were al- 
ways good — but they wouldn't understand, so I never 
explained.' 

“ ‘And,' I went on in a burst of indignation, ‘to 
think that we called you a miser when every cent 
that you could spare was going to keep your boy in 
school, and he knowing nothing of your tremendous 
sacrifice.' 

“ ‘Don't speak of it, I beg,' he said in some agita- 
tion. He did not like to play the hero. ‘It's this 
way. Here it is the fall of the year. The flowers 
wither and die, the seeds fall to the earth. They 
die, that new life may come. So it was with Christ. 
He died and was buried, that we. His children, might 
live. Why should not I do as much for my boy. 


35 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


following both Nature and Nature’s God!’ And he 
went on excitedly, ‘‘That life may come. I shall be 
dead when my son returns, but he brings back life 
with him, life for souls. Thousands will live because 
of my death. When he pours the water of baptism, 
he gives life to souls. When he absolves from sin, 
he gives life to souls. When he brings the Holy 
Communion, he gives Life itself. Even to the dying 
he opens the gates to life eternal, as they have been 
opened for me. 0 God, and I shall have my share 
in the great work. My life has not been a failure. 
My money, my business, my health and happiness, 
all have failed and have gone, and yet my life is a 
success, for I shall live again in him. I shall never 
again see him, but he will stand daily at the altar 
of God to pray for my soul.’ ” 

Searle seemed almost overcome with emotion, and 
a faint mist of tears glistened in his blue eyes. He 
paused for a moment and then continued. 

“Soon afterward, very soon, my little French- 
man died. When I told the boys about his sacrifice 
they were genuinely sorry that they had been so 
mean, and we all attended the funeral at the French 
Church. 

“I met his son after he came back from abroad. 
He was heart-broken at the story I had to tell him, 
but he bore it like the brave man and true priest 
that he is. He’s doing great work,” commented 
Searle enthusiastically. 


36 


THE MISANTHROPE. 


‘‘Good,” said I, “I don’t wonder, after the heroic 
sacrifice of his father.” 

“I like to think of the old Frenchman in the per- 
son of his son bringing life to souls. It is a beautiful 
thought. Of course some of the seeds will fall upon 
stony ground,” he laughed and pointed to himself, 
“as for instance here. I was the first convert received 
by the son, but I was really converted by the father.” 

“What, you, Arthur Searle, a convert, a Cath- 
olic!” I exclaimed. 

“Why, yes. Father. Didn’t I mention that I 
had become a Catholic? I came in about six years 
ago. Brought in my wife and mother, and now I’m 
gunning for some of my friends. You know we con- 
verts, I think, appreciate the Faith more than those 
born in it. You are accustomed to it, while we sim- 
ply revel in our new found treasure, and want to 
share it with everybody. Some of my business 
friends told me I was making a mistake, but 1 
haven’t found it so. Everything I put my hand to, 
prospers. I have only one ambition left. Father, — 
it’s the same as the old Frenchman’s.” 

“What is it?” I asked stupidly. 

“To see one of my boys a priest.” 

He said this so wistfully, that I don’t know why, 
but a spirit within seemed to impel me, and I laid 
my hand on his shoulder and said : 

“You will live to see it, Searle, I promise you. 
I’m as sure of it as I am that I stand here. You’ll 
see your boy a priest.” 


37 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


My prophecy has not been fulfilled yet, but 
Searle is hale, hearty and fiourishing, and his oldest 
boy entered the Seminary last fall. And so the little 
Frenchman’s soul goes marching on. 



38 


BREAD ON THE WATERS. 


Supper finished, pastor and curate arose, and 
turned slightly toward the crucifix, while the pastor 
recited the old Latin thanksgiving which he had 
been saying thrice a day for the past forty-five years, 
ever since he learned it in the seminary. Once Fr. 
Doucette, the second curate, had said to him jok- 
ingly, ‘'Why don't you say it in English so that we 
can understand it? We're not in the seminary any 
longer," and much to his secret delight, the old man 
had given him a long talk on the beauty of the 
Latin, and its holiness as the liturgical language of 
the Church. “Change my prayers !" the venerable old 
man exclaimed, “Indeed I won't. Why I've been say- 
ing them that way for the past forty years." 

Tonight, Fr. Doucette was away, but the nightly 
council so dear to the heart of the old Pastor must be 
held. Of late, the old man was too feeble to take 
much part in the active life of the parish, but his 
mind was clear, his interest as keen as of old, and 
these nightly councils were his greatest joy. Every 
night after supper he led the way to his study, and 
there, with the curates, he went over the parish busi- 
ness of the day. He gave orders rarely, advice and 
counsel from his rich experience frequently, cheer 


39 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


and encouragement, from his pastoral heart, always ; 
and in this way the old Pastor felt that he kept in 
touch with his people, though he could not go around 
among them himself as much as in the olden days. 

Many an argument they had in these councils, 
many a point in pastoral or moral theology they 
thrashed out, for the old man was always a student 
and dearly loved an argument. With the privilege 
of old age he often grew reminiscent and told of the 
past — what giants priests were in those days — and 
he would shake his head a little at the curates as he 
compared them with the men of old. 

This night, when they had been seated a few 
minutes in the pastor's study, he suddenly asked 
“Well, what about Johnny Guarda? I've been think- 
ing about the young rascal all day. Did you get him 
out?" 

“No," answered the Curate. “You know I saw 
his mother last night and promised I'd do what I 
could for him, but he's a wild lad. There's not so 
much malice in him, as mischief, I think. You know 
he was sent to the Reform School, and they have a 
merit system there which works an automatic re- 
lease as soon as the boys gain the seven hundred 
merit-marks required. He hasn't earned half his yet, 
and the authorities are so dissatisfied that they will 
not recommend his pardon till he shows signs of im- 
provement. I went to City Hall myself and saw the 
Commissioner, and he promised me that the boy 
would be released in the fall if he made an effort 


40 


BREAD ON THE WATERS. 


to do better. The Commissioner insists that this 
disciplining is for the lad’s own good, and that the 
training won’t hurt him a bit. I think myself the boy 
needs it, but I shall see him one of these days and 
tell him that if he toes the mark for the next three 
months. I’ll get him out, — otherwise I won’t lift a 
finger to help him.” 

‘‘Easy — easy — go easy, young man,” com- 
mented the pastor with gentle sarcasm, “and what’s 
his poor mother to do in the meantime, with her 
husband disabled these last three years and not do- 
ing a stroke of work ? It seems to me you’re think- 
ing a lot about the training of the boy and forget- 
ting his poor parents who may be starving.” 

“Poor parents indeed!” retorted the Curate. 
“Isn’t the daughter working and supporting them !” 

“The daughter — the daughter,” said the Pastor 
musingly, “Oh, yes, I had forgotten her. That 
doesn’t help much. What is one poor girl’s pay when 
there is the rent to meet and the coal to buy and the 
doctor’s bill to settle.” 

“Poor girl’s pay indeed,” again retorted the Cu- 
rate. “What do you suppose she gets at Mark- 
ham’s ?” 

“Seven or eight, perhaps ten dollars a week,” 
ventured the Pastor. 

“Forty-five dollars a week,” cried the Curate. 
“She was made buyer this year, as the regular buyer 
was afraid to go to France during the war, and re- 
signed. She was assistant last year, and Mr. Mark- 


41 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


ham Senior tells me she is one of the cleverest women 
in the business, and will get even more next year/' 

^'Forty-five dollars a week," murmured the Pas- 
tor incredulously. 

"Yes, and she's as good as she is clever, and 
you may be sure her parents have more comfort 
now than they ever had, even if their young hopeful 
is locked up. She is devoted to them, and the only 
unhappiness in their lives is caused by that little 
rascal Johnny ; but his sister has a good opening for 
him at Markham's when he is released, and we all 
hope he will do better." 

"Thank God," said the Pastor after a pause. 
"They are good people. No other happenings during 
the day?" 

"Only a couple of sick calls. Old Mr. Gallagher 
had another bad turn." 

"I must try to get over to see him one of these 
days," said the Pastor. "I married him nearly thirty 
years ago — a good man always. How time flies ! I 
can scarcely believe I've been here over thirty years, 
yes, thirty-five almost. I remember — " 

The Curate sat back comfortably in the big chair, 
his hands clasped on his knee, for "I remember" gen- 
erally heralded a reminiscence of some sort or other, 
and he fervently hoped that it would be one that he 
had not heard more than half a dozen times before. 

"Let me see, it must be twenty-six, no, twenty- 
seven years ago come August, and I had just sent 
the Married Women's Sodality home, and was sitting 


42 


BREAD ON THE WATERS, 


here finishing the Office, when the bell rang. I went 
down to the little parlor, and there I found one of 
my sodality women, her face all flushed with excite- 
ment, and in her arms was an infant. With her, and 
looking a bit embarrassed, was Terry Dolan, the po- 
liceman, fanning himself with his helmet, for it was 
a warm night."' 

The Curate straightened a little in his chair. 
This sounded like a new one. 

‘Tt seems that on her way back from Sodality 
she saw in what was then an open field, just where 
the big warehouse stands today, a group of boys, 
and Terry Dolan, the officer, talking with them. Her 
womanly curiosity getting the best of her, she 
walked over to see what the trouble was. 

‘"She soon saw, for lying on the ground at the 
feet of the helpless group of men, was the infant she 
bore in her arms. With a mother's tenderness she 
lifted the little thing in her arms, — ^for none of the 
men dared to touch it — and instinctively she turned 
to the priest. Accompanied by the policeman, she 
came back to ask me what she was to do. 

‘T too was puzzled for a minute. Then — it must 
have been a thought from God — I said to her ‘Why 
don't you keep the child yourself? Maybe God put 
it in your way.' 

“ T'd like to. Father,' she answered readily 
enough, pressing the infant to her bosom, ‘indeed I 
would, but I'll have to ask my husband.' 

“Well to make a long story short, for I see our 


43 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


half hour session is nearly over, her husband agreed 
willingly enough, and they brought the infant over 
next night and I baptized it myself, as if it were 
their own child. The longer I live, the more won- 
derful is the Gospel to me. ‘Cast your bread upon 
the waters.' " 

“Did the child live?" asked the Curate. 

“She lived, and she supports those good people 
in their old age and keeps them out of the poor- 
house, while their own flesh and blood turns against 
them. Forty-five dollars a week, I think you said. 
Great pay for a young woman, God bless her!" 



44 


CALLED AS AARON. 


The “Herr Pfarrer,” as everyone called him, or 
Parish Priest of Steinbock, seemed, I must confess, 
a most uninteresting and prosaic person to me, but I 
had to admit that in all Tyrol I had never seen a 
Pastor more beloved by his people. He was just a 
plain-looking little priest, short and stout, with 
snowy hair and cold blue eyes. He wore a cassock, 
which my critical American eye found shabby and 
threadbare, and I noticed also that his shoes were 
old and worn. But then his people were very poor, 
and I surmised that the Herr Pfarrer was probably 
very charitable. At any rate the children loved him, 
if I didn’t, and always ran to kiss his hand when he 
went up the long, straggling and only street of 
Steinbock. 

I suppose I was a little sensitive over the fact 
that, when I was introduced to him, he looked me 
through with his cold blue eyes, instead of enthusing 
a bit over the young American priest in a strange 
land, and bowing, excused himself, as he had some 
business to attend to. I did not realize until after- 
wards that the “Herr Pfarrer” was of a shy and 
retiring disposition. He had lived in the mountains 


45 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


all his life, and was embarrassed in the presence of 
strangers. 

However, I saw a good deal of the Herr Pfarrer 
during the weeks I stayed in Steinbock, for I lived 
in the Gemeinde-Haus. The Gemeinde-Haus in the 
Village of Steinbock is a very important institution 
— it is the jail, the hospital, the poorhouse, insane 
asylum, village school and student hospice of the 
community. The Sisters of Charity fulfill all the 
offices. Crime is, of course, almost unknown, and 
the one room which constitutes the jail is rarely oc- 
cupied. Nor, in the little village, are there many sick, 
and hence the school is really the chief care of the 
Sisters. In the Summer the exiled American stu- 
dents, who come thither from Innsbruck to spend 
part of their vacation, are welcome guests. Let me 
hasten to explain that I was in neither the poorhouse 
nor the hospital, nor the jail, but was just a stray 
American student, who, wandering through the 
Brenner Pass, on the great road over the Alps from 
Italy to Austria, found Steinbock so beautiful that I 
remained there for many weeks. 

The pure mountain air, the delightful walks 
through the woods, the babbling stream which lulled 
to rest at night with its soothing voices, the hospit- 
able Sisters, and the good companionship of some of 
the American students from Innsbruck, all made the 
place so charming that I remained there much 
longer than I had originally intended. 

But here I am telling you about my unimportant 


46 


CALLED AS AARON, 


self, when it is about the little Herr Pfarrer of Stein- 
bock that I want to talk. He came over every after- 
noon for Benediction, and though at first he seemed 
cold and distant, after a while I got to know him 
better. I found that those cold blue eyes could grow 
warm, and that the grave face could smile very pleas- 
antly, and that the Herr Pfarrer, when he knew you, 
could even become a very sociable companion. 

I would not call him pious. He was certainly 
very unemotional. He said his Mass, too, rather 
quickly, I thought, for a man whom the people called 
a saint. Yet I found his conversation turned always 
about things spiritual. The spiritual world was as 
clear and matter-of-fact to him as the wind or 
weather is to ordinary mortals. His spirituality was 
not obtrusive. It was just plain common sense to the 
Herr Pfarrer. It was his life, and he talked of it as 
a man talks about his art, profession or business. 
He passed easily and naturally from the world about 
him to the unseen world where he was more at 
home. I soon began to regard Herr Pfarrer as a 
most remarkable man, and forgot about his old cas- 
sock and shoes. 

One afternoon he asked me if I would like to 
walk along the path by the mountain stream which 
flowed past the Gemeinde-Haus down the valley. I 
willingly agreed. This Herr Pfarrer was decidedly 
interesting, and I wanted to know more about him. 
He was silent at first, but soon began to talk about 
some of the Innsbruck students, and said some very 


47 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


complimentary things about the Americans there. 
This pleased me, for they had been very kind to me 
wherever I met them in the Tyrol. 

Quite naturally he passed to the subject of vo- 
cation. 

‘What a sublime thing,'' he said meditatively, 
“the vocation to the priesthood. Chosen by God as 
Aaron of old. I myself was one of a large family. 
Why was I called in preference to my brothers ? And 
they much better than I, — much better." 

“Sublime, indeed," I assented, “but," I began 
somewhat dogmatically, being fresh from the 
schools, “the call of the Bishop is what constitutes 
vocation." 

The good Herr Pfarrer looked somewhat sur- 
prised and pained at my remark. 

“Ah, yes," he answered quietly. “True, the call 
of the Bishop is vocation. But," he went on eagerly, 
“is not that merely the acknowledgement, the recog- 
nition by authority of the call from God ? Ah, heavy 
the burden and heavy the responsibility of the priest- 
hood upon that heart which has not felt the divine 
call. The voice of God calling me is one of the ear- 
liest recollections of my own childhood, and in the 
strength of my belief in my supernatural vocation, 
I plodded on through many difficulties." 

“But," I began again, argumentatively, “that's 
only your personal experience. You can't argue from 
your vocation to that of all priests. And it's a good 
thing that seminary professors, at least, are not 


48 


CALLED AS AARON, 


forced to pronounce upon the supernatural quality 
of vocation. Why, for instance” (I was very pre- 
sumptuous and my head still full of syllogisms) 
‘'how could you prove the supernatural character of 
your own vocation, if you were asked to prove it?” 

He colored a little at this, and hesitated a long 
time. Finally he answered: 

“You are a very young priest. I have not told 
the story for many years, but it may help you. I 
have no proof, as you call it, to offer, and do not ask 
you to believe — but, come, the sun is setting; it is 
time to retrace our steps. Would you really like to 
know how I came to desire to become a priest ?” 

His face had become very solemn in the gather- 
ing twilight. There was a certain majesty about this 
little priest that awed me. 

“Why, certainly,” I answered earnestly. My 
argumentative spirit was quenched, and, as I turned, 
— with the red glow of the dying sun in the Western 
sky, staining the snowy-white mountains red as with 
the blood of ancient sacrifices; with the little chilly 
brook babbling its changeless song to the sky ; with 
the tall firs nodding mysteriously back and forth as 
they whispered to the night wind, — conviction seized 
me, and I believed him, I think, before he uttered a 
word. 

It is not a very impressive story, set down in 
cold print, but if you could have heard it as I did, — 
in the little valley of Steinbock, on that quiet evening 
as the shadows darkened, — ^from the lips of my not 


49 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


very imposing, but very saintly, little Pfarrer, who 
so evidently believed it himself, you would believe it 
with me. 

‘‘What is man that thou art mindful of him?” 
he began, pointing to the insignificant little village 
far down the valley, straggling along at the foot of 
the eternal hills. 

“When I was a boy,” he went on, “I lived in the 
South Tyrol near Meran. My father was a substan- 
tial man for those parts, but we lived frugally and 
were brought up on hard work. He was a strict 
disciplinarian, a stern and God-fearing man, who did 
not spare the rod, and we children loved, and yet 
feared him. 

“Daily I climbed to a high plateau, where there 
was good grass for the large fiock of sheep which 
we had. On three sides the ascent was very easy and 
gradual, but on the north side there was a precipitous 
slope to the valley, and my great care was to watch 
the foolish sheep, lest they should stumble down its 
steep sides to injury or death. 

“Usually I was not alone, — there were one or two 
other lads, neighbors, who also watched their sheep. 
But this was a monotonous life for a boy, and some- 
times we played the truant. Entrusting the care of 
all the fiock to one, the rest of us would stray around 
chasing butterflies or playing games, as lads will. 

“One hot sunny afternoon, I shall never forget 
it, I left my flock in the care of another youngster 
about my own age, — I was then about twelve, — and 


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“I recommended especially my flock to the care of the 
Crucified.’" 


CALLED AS AARON. 


went down into the valley to swim in the little brook. 
I had to pass a large cross which was erected on the 
top of the plateau, one of the usual Tyrolese shrines, 
much like that one over there”, (he pointed to a 
great crucifix by the roadside) ‘‘and, as usual, I 
doffed my hat, and paused for a moment to say a 
little prayer. I recommended especially my flock to 
the care of the Crucified.” 

He smiled a little at this, and then remarked, 

“We are always asking Christ to bear out bur- 
dens, arenT we?” 

I nodded assent, but said nothing. 

There was a tremor in the Herr Pfarrer's voice 
as he continued: 

“The valley was delightfully shady and cool on 
that sultry day, and I remained there much longer 
than I realized. Suddenly I noticed a storm gather- 
ing over the mountains. You know how quickly they 
come up. It was high time for me to return to my 
abandoned fiock, and I started to scramble hastily 
up the mountain. 

“The clouds soon covered the sky and a fine mist 
began to fall, blotting out the landscape. However, 
I knew the way well and soon gained the top of the 
plateau. I began to run and again passing the 
shrine, I doffed my hat without stopping ; but in the 
sidelong glance I took, it seemed to me that the Body 
of Christ was not there, — that the cross was bare.” 

The Herr Pfarrer paused a minute, and with a 
steadier voice continued : 


51 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


‘‘I was too much pre-occupied by the thought 
of my sheep to pay much attention to it at the time, 
but hastened onward to the place where I had left 
them. Alas ! They were not there, but in the dis- 
tance I could hear them. They were near the north- 
ern precipitous slope. A cold fear seized me and I 
grasped the truth. The boy to whom I had en- 
trusted them, frightened by the coming storm, had 
hastily assembled his own sheep and departed, aban- 
doning mine. 

‘‘Breathless by this time, I stumbled on until I 
came to the flock, and sure enough, the boy was 
gone; but between them and the precipice was a 
stranger, a shepard with a staff in his hand. He 
looked like one of the Tyrolese shepards, and smiled 
a little as I hastened up to thank him. 

“ ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘I thank you. You are a good 
shepherd.’ 

“I shall never forget his answer. 

“ ‘Child, I am the Good Shepherd. You must 
tend My Sheep better than this.’ 

“I was too young then to understand fully. I 
was not afraid, but I was a little awestruck at the 
dignity of this Shepherd, and as I drove my sheep 
home, I kept looking back to see Him till He had 
quite disappeared in the gathering darkness. I 
stopped before the shrine to pray, as I passed again, 
and I saw that after all the Body was there. 

“When I reached the valley safely my mother 
was coming along the road to meet me. The moun- 


62 


CALLED AS AARON, 


tain storms are dangerous, and she was worried. I 
don't know why, but when I saw her I burst into 
tears. She caught me in her arms and soothed me, 
and asked me what the trouble was. 

told her the whole story. I shall never forget 
her look and tender embrace when I had finished. 

“ The prayers of my life-time are answered,' 
she said. 

‘'She hastened to tell my father the story, and I 
had to tell him again myself. 

“ ‘My son,' he said solemnly, ‘It was The Good 
Shepherd. And He said that you were to tend His 
Sheep? He has called you to the holy Priesthood. 
You must go to college.' 

“Taking my hand, he kissed it, just as the chil- 
dren here kiss the hand of the priest. I did not un- 
derstand it all fully, but I saw tears in his eyes. This 
impressed me more than all else, as Father was a 
stem man, and even when we buried little Elsa, my 
sister, whom he loved more than all, I had not seen 
him shed a tear. 

“So, you see," he observed smiling, “although 
I could not prove the supernatural character of my 
vocation, I am fully persuaded of it myself." 

We were silent till we neared the village. 

As I said before, I believed every word he ut- 
tered. I believe them still, but I could not help 
objecting. 

“Perhaps you were mistaken after all. The mist 
was rather heavy, and the first time you passed the 


53 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


shrine, in your hurry, you did not see the Body.” 

“Perhaps,” said the Herr Pfarrer, undisturbed. 
“I told you I could not prove it. But all things are 
possible to God. If we had Faith as great as a mus- 
tard seed, we could see the many miracles which 
occur around us every day.” 

When I got back to the Gemeinde-Haus, I wrote 
in my diary the story of the Herr Pfarrer of Stein- 
bock. I have given it to you substantially as I wrote 
it, omitting his name, and changing the name of the 
town lest perhaps his humility would be hurt by 
the fact that I had thus written of him for the 
public. 



54 


THE LOST GOSPEL. 


Some critic, I hesitate to call him friendly, has 
written to say that he liked the story of the Herr 
Pfarrer of Steinbock better than anything I have 
written myself, and that, if I had any more of the 
Herr Pfarrer's stories, he would like to hear them. 
While I confess that his letter was not very flatter- 
ing to me, still I was glad to hear that he liked the 
Herr Pfarrer’s story. If he derived half as much 
pleasure from my telling it, as I did from listening 
to it, I feel that my labor in copying it from my 
diary has not been in vain. 

Yes, I have more of the Herr Pfarrer’ s stories, 
but many of them I shall never give to the public. 
Some of his spiritual experiences were so strange 
that no one would believe them. To me, they are 
sacred, and I should not like to see them character- 
ized as wierd, fantastic or impossible. Some of them 
dealt with people still living, and I fear that I might 
be guilty of a breach of confidence if I should publish 
them ; others would perhaps be uninteresting to the 
general public. 

However, in looking through the pages of my 
diary, I find the notes of one story the Pfarrer told, 
which was remarkable in many ways, and to me pro- 


55 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


foundly interesting. In fact, the story so impressed 
me at the time that, though my diary is before me 
as I write, I find I scarcely need to glance at it, so 
vividly do I remember even the details. 

The man who told this story to the Herr Pfarrer 
was insane, but the Pfarrer believed every word of 
it. I confess that when the Herr Pfarrer, knowing 
I was studying Scripture, told it to me, I frankly 
told him that he had been imposed on by the raving 
of a madman. I am not so sure of that now, for I 
have learned a little since. 

There is a private sanatorium for the feeble- 
minded and insane in Gratz, the next village to 
Steinbock in the Brenner Pass in the direction of 
Innsbruck. The sanatorium, in fact, is situated 
about half-way between Steinbock and Gratz, and 
when the Herr Pfarrer of Gratz, in whose parish it 
is situated, is summoned away, the Herr Pfarrer of 
Steinbock attends to any emergency calls. As these 
calls have been frequent during the past twenty 
years, he has come to know many of the unfortunate 
inmates. 

‘‘Did you ever hear of the young German Orien- 
talist, Herr Meyer?'* he asked me one evening, as we 
were sitting, after supper, in the little summer house 
in the Herr Pfarrer's garden. 

“Herr Meyer?" I queried, racking my brain to 
think where I had heard the name before. “Why, 
yes, the man's name is familiar enough. I've run 
across it somewhere, but I cannot recall just now — " 


56 


THE LOST GOSPEL. 


‘‘He was connected with the Palestine Explora- 
tion Society of Berlin.” 

“Ah, yes,” I answered, “I remember now very 
well. It was in their reports, and also in the report 
of the Deutsche Evangelische Bund that I saw his 
name mentioned. He figured rather prominently in 
their publications, and, I should judge, has done ex- 
cellent work. He is a good archaeologian. But I 
haven't heard much about him lately.” 

“No,” answered the Herr Pfarrer dryly, “I 
should think not. He is an inmate of the sanatorium 
in the next village, hopelessly insane.” 

“No !” I exclaimed. “You surprise me.” I was 
silent for some time and then added, “Isn't it a pity ! 
He was a brilliant fellow and had a great career be- 
fore him.” 

“Very sad,” said the Pfarrer gravely. “I usu- 
ally see him when I go there. Sometimes he recog- 
nizes me, and at other times he is stark mad and 
recognizes no one. These lucid intervals are of short 
duration, but while they last I find him apparently 
well-balanced and sane, and very interesting. But 
at other times he seems more a beast than a man.” 

“What happened to him?” I asked. “Over- 
work ?” 

“The doctor in charge says ‘melancholia, 
brought on by the mysterious disappearance of a 
fellow-student.' ” 

“And you?” I asked. I had a very profound 
respect for the Herr Pfarrer's opinion. His intui- 


57 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


tions were often startingly true, and at times he 
seemed able to read men’s souls. 

‘It is a heavenly visitation,” he answered 
thoughtfully. 

“Visitation?” I queried. “So you think it a 
punishment from God?” 

“I’m sure of it,” answered the Pfarrer. “You 
know his writings well enough, perhaps. His whole 
aim in life seemed to be to attack Christian tradi- 
tion. He was a thorough-going sceptic, and a de- 
structive critic.” 

“No,” I answered. “I am not sufficiently fami- 
liar with his theories.” 

“Very sad,” again repeated the Herr Pfarrer. 
“His whole story is sad. He was born in Berlin of 
Catholic parents, and was brought up a Catholic. He 
practised his religion, too, until he went to the State 
University. He was a brilliant student, — Harnack 
himself publicly praised him one day — and he was 
encouraged to go into Oriental work. What wonder 
that, under such influences and such flattering no- 
tices, he soon lost his Faith. He succumbed to the 
craze for originality, the contempt for tradition, and 
the atmosphere of destructive criticism in which he 
found himself. He was brilliant and ambitious, and 
I believe his hopes of a professorship were based on 
an actual promise of a Chair in the University of 
Berlin. 

“As a Catholic and a conservative, he knew he 
could not even be considered, and so he threw his 


58 


THE LOST GOSPEL. 


Faith overboard because it was a hindrance to his 
ambitions, and joined the radicals in their work of 
destruction. God struck him and brought his short 
but brilliant career to a sudden close.” 

‘Terhaps it was over-work,” I again suggested. 
Sometimes I thought the Herr Pfarrer was a little 
too mystical in his interpretation of life. He saw 
the direct intervention of God in many events which 
most men would assign to natural causes. And so I 
added, 

‘‘But you said something about the doctor 
attributing it to the mysterious disappearance of a 
friend. Perhaps that may be the real reason. I 
don’t believe in crying miracle everywhere. What 
has the scientific doctor to say about it?” 

The Herr Pfarrer smiled at my scepticism and 
said: 

“The word of Science is a very good word in 
things physical, but what does Science know of the 
soul? The doctor, like yourself,” he added malici- 
ously, “is a scientist and seeks the merely natural 
in everything, and thereby he often misses the real 
cause. However, since you wish it, I will tell you 
briefly the story of the course of the madness of 
Herr Meyer as Science, in the person of the doctor, 
gave it to me. 

“The doctor told me that Herr Meyer was sent 
out from Berlin to assist in the various extensive 
German explorations of the Holy Land. He was also 
to write an original book, as all candidates must do 


59 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


before they present themselves for a professorship 
in the University. He had been in Palestine nearly 
three years, and had spent most of the time in in- 
timate association with a young Hungarian student. 

“The two were as David and Jonathan of old, al- 
ways together; and yet they were ill-assorted, for 
the Hungarian was a devout Catholic and a stubborn 
conservative, while the Herr Meyer had all the 
hatred for the Church which marks a renegade. Yet 
they had much in common; they both talked Ger- 
man, for the Hungarian was educated at Vienna; 
they were both engaged in the same work, though 
with totally different views ; they were both young ; 
they both hoped to teach; and they both had the 
same subject for their book, 'The Lost Gospel.' " 

“The Lost Gospel," I interrupted. “That must 
be the original Gospel of St. Matthew written in Ara- 
maic, which was lost in the earliest years of the 
Church, after it had been translated into Greek." 

“That was just the point at issue," said the 
Herr Pfarrer. “That's the Catholic view, based on 
tradition. Now the Herr Meyer was using all his 
science to prove that the original Gospel of St. Mat- 
thew, which was lost, was a very short Gospel con- 
taining only a few of the sermons of Christ, and 
that what we call the Gospel of St. Matthew is not 
the work of the Apostle himself, but an entirely 
new work by some unknown person. He was trying 
to prove that the real Gospel of St. Matthew was 
totally lost, except for a few fragments recently dis- 
covered. 


60 


THE LOST GOSPEL, 


“The Hungarian, on the other hand, was 
laboring to establish the Catholic view, namely that 
the Greek Gospel is a faithful and entire translation 
of the original Aramaic Gospel which St. Matthew 
wrote. I think the Catholic student had been uncer- 
tain as to just what he would write until he heard 
of the work of Herr Meyer, and then he determined 
to write a book to oifset the pernicious influence of 
the Rationalist. 

“That was precisely why the German colony at 
Jerusalem wondered how men of such divergent 
views could be friends, and could be such sincere 
friends. There could be no doubt of their friend- 
ship, for they were constantly together.” 

“Tell me, Herr Pfarrer,” I cried excitedly, “was 
that the young Hungarian whom the Bedouins cap- 
tured near Jerusalem a few years ago, and of whom 
nothing was ever again heard ?” 

“Precisely,” said the Herr Pfarrer. “It was he 
whom the Bedouins captured, or killed, and this, the 
doctor tells me, was the cause of Herr Meyer's in- 
sanity. The Hungarian was reckless and never car- 
ried a weapon, though he wandered through the 
country by day and night. Herr Meyer and his other 
friends had frequently remonstrated with him, but 
to no effect. 

“He would remain away a great part of 
the night, and would offer the frivolous excuse that 
he was watching the play of the moonlight on the 
ancient walls of the city or on the tombs of Jehoso- 


61 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


phat, or that he had joined a student party at the 
Gambrinus-Halle near the Jaffa Gate. But his late 
wanderings never prevented him from going to Mass 
every morning at St. Etienne, the Dominican Church 
outside the Damascus Gate, or from receiving daily 
Communion there. He was a great favorite with the 
learned correspondents of the Revue Biblique at the 
monastery. 

‘‘When he disappeared one day, as completely as 
if the earth had swallowed him up, the Herr Meyer 
was like one distracted. His book was nearly fin- 
ished, but he abandoned it and went out with the 
search party. 

“When the others gave up the search, 
he continued passionately. Day by day he roamed 
the countryside in scorching sun or chill night wind, 
until it became an obsession with him. One day 
when he returned, he took the manuscript, the labor 
of years and the hope of his life, and tore it to 
shreds before his friends realized what he was doing. 

“Then they recognized the melancholy fact that 
he had become insane. He was brought home, and 
committed to the institution where I met him. 

“This much the doctor in charge told me. He 
also said that the Herr Meyer raves over lost Gos- 
pels and great discoveries, sometimes in German, 
and then again in wild gibberish which he supposes 
is Arabic. He says the unfortunate man is hope- 
lessly insane, and that no attention whatever is to 
be paid to his ravings. 


62 


THE LOST GOSPEL. 


“I disagree with the doctor. I have seen the 
Herr Meyer often, and I am persuaded that in his 
calmer moments he has told me the truth of the dis- 
appearance of the Hungarian, and of the discovery 
of the Lost Gospel. Sometimes I have gathered frag- 
ments of the story from his ravings, parts that he 
never told in his lucid intervals; sometimes I have 
read the horror of it in his eyes, the staring eyes of 
a madman. You will say, and the world will say, 
that no credence whatever is to be placed in the rav- 
ings of a mind disordered, but as for me,'' the Herr 
Pfarrer said simply, believe this to be the true 
story. 

‘The friendship of the Hungarian and Herr 
Meyer was what the world thought it, deep and sin- 
cere. They agreed on all things, save on the princi- 
pal thing. Religion. As time went by, the Herr 
Meyer had grown more and more fanatical on the 
subject of Catholicity, and the mere mention of 
the Church would excite him. Worse yet, when the 
subject-matter of their books v/as touched upon, 
Herr Meyer would argue with all the stubborn dog- 
matism of those who reject all dogma, and then he 
would grow angry, and would storm, until the good- 
natured Hungarian would laughingly direct the cur- 
rent of conversation into safer channels. 

“The nightly roving of the Hungarian was a 
source of deepest curiosity to the Herr Meyer, es- 
pecially when he saw his friend's suit, a rough khaki, 
stained by mud. He frequently questioned the 


63 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


young Hungarian concerning his whereabouts, but 
always received an evasive reply. 

‘Tinally his curiosity was satisfied in a most 
unexpected way. It happened one night when the 
Hungarian returned to the hotel in a strangely ex- 
alted mood. He was jubilant, and yet rather solemn, 
and finally confessed to the Herr Meyer the cause of 
his nightly wanderings. 

“It seems that he had heard of the revelations 
of Anna Catherine Emmerich, the saintly German 
Mystic, and one of her visions particularly interested 
him, for it concerned the Lost Gospel. She saw in 
her vision a subterranean chamber in Jerusalem in 
the hidden recesses of which still reposed the Lost 
Gospel, intact, just as it was when hidden there cen- 
turies before — perhaps during the terrible destruc- 
tion of Jerusalem by Titus in the year 70 of the 
Christian era. 

“The Hungarian was a man of science as well 
as of Faith. He had verified for himself the accu- 
racy of many of her revelations concerning the de- 
tails of the Passion, the topography of the Holy 
Places, and the manners, customs and dress of the 
time of Christ. Knowing, as he did, the sites of the 
principal early Christian homes in Jerusalem, he re- 
solved to explore, to seek out the subterranean cham- 
ber described by the Mystic, and to give to the world, 
if he could, the Lost Gospel. 

“As everyone knows, it is hard to obtain permis- 
sions to explore from the Mohammedan authorities 


64 


THE LOST GOSPEL. 


of the city. He knew that his whole scheme, in- 
spired by the visions of a nun, would be looked upon 
as foolish and unscientific by his friends : and so he 
went to work secretly. He bribed the owner of a 
shop next door to the Mosque which he intuitively 
felt covered the chamber described by the Sister, and 
received permission to spend the nights there. The 
ignorant Arab, well satisfied with gold, asked no 
questions, and so night after night the enthusiast 
wormed his way slowly under the foundation of the 
place which he suspected. It was not a long distance, 
— only a few yards in fact, — but the soil was hard 
and filled with rubble, and the work was slow and try- 
ing. But his faith and patience were finally rewarded, 
for after he had burrowed the short distance re- 
quired, the earth gave way before the crowbar he 
used, and he soon found himself in a small under- 
ground chamber, of a type common enough in an- 
cient Jerusalem. He had not yet explored the cham- 
ber, but purposed to do so that very night, and he 
invited his friend the Herr Meyer to accompany him. 

‘‘Herr Meyer was amazed and dumbfounded; 
but he agreed to go. When the Hungarian had left 
his room, the fanatical German grew angry, in- 
tensely angry, and cursed himself for a fool — agree- 
ing to such a ridiculous plan. The absurd supersti- 
tion of it, to engage in a work because of the foolish 
imagination of a nun — to seek a document which he 
was fully persuaded never existed! 

“And yet — if it did — just suppose it did — . But 


65 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


it was nonsense, arrant nonsense. Yet if it did, — 
he could tear the manuscript of his book into shreds 
— the work of years lost in a moment — but it was 
ridiculous to think this. Was he getting as foolish 
as the Sister in Germany who had imagined all this 
stuff and nonsense? 

‘'Ah, what a hero the Hungarian would be — and 
he, well, he would have to begin all over again. He 
would be a nobody, while the Hungarian would be 
the idol of the scientific and religious world, the dis- 
coverer of the Lost Gospel. He ground his teeth — 
then he began to laugh. What a fool he was — or could 
it be true. He was actually becoming superstitious 
again. All day long he pondered it, half -believing 
now that there was something in it, and again disbe- 
lieving. The whole thing was insanity — and, yet, 
and yet, suppose, just suppose it were true. Fare- 
well to his book, farewell to his professorship. 

“That night they stole out of the house together 
into the darkness. In the Arab's shop they found 
the lanterns and the crowbar. The Herr Meyer 
stared vacantly as the Hungarian pried up a flag- 
stone and disclosed the entrance to his tunnel. 

“ ‘Hands and knees,' said the young Hungarian 
in a sharp whisper. ‘The passage is very narrow, 
but you can squeeze through. I'll lead the way.' 

“It was only a short distance, but it seemed 
interminable to the Herr Meyer as he crawled along, 
dragging the crow-bar with him for further use in 
exploring the chamber. Finally they emerged. 


66 


THE LOST GOSPEL. 


‘The dim light of the lantern pierced the dark- 
ness of centuries, and lit up a small room, with walls 
and ceilings part earth and part stone. It was abso- 
lutely bare. 

“ ‘We must sound the wall,' said the Hungarian, 
and patiently they went on tapping. Finally the 
Hungarian, with a cry of triumph, struck with his 
hammer a small square stone which gave forth a 
hollow ring. A chill like death went over the Herr 
Meyer. 

“ ‘You have the crow-bar, pry it loose,' com- 
manded the Hungarian. 

“With considerable difficulty the stone was dis- 
lodged and a small recess was laid bare. 

“ ‘The lantern,' shouted the Hungarian ex- 
citedly. 

“Herr Meyer thrust it forward, and sure enough, 
within the recess was a large collection of ancient 
papyri, and even in the dim light they could see 
that the writing was in old Hebrew characters. There 
was no doubt in the mind of either. 

“ ‘The Lost Gospel ! Praised be Jesus Christ.' 
The Hungarian bowed his head reverently. 

“Then madness seized the Herr Meyer. His 
work ruined, his book a laughing stock — the Hunga- 
rian the hero. No! This discovery must be his 
own. This would be worth more than ten thousand 
books that he could write. This would win him an 
undying name, and universities would eagerly bid 
for him to teach. What prevented him ? This boy 


67 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


who stood before him — this boy who by accident had 
made the great discovery. He must act, and act 
quickly. 

‘The Hungarian was bending low over the man- 
uscript, devouring its quaint characters. In a mad 
moment the Herr Meyer raised the crow-bar, and 
with a quick blow brought it crashing down. The 
Hungarian fell to the ground without a groan. His 
blood spattered the wall, and some drops fell upon 
the Lost Gospel. 

‘Tt was done in an instant, and the next mo- 
ment crushing remorse fell heavy upon the soul of 
the Herr Meyer. His half-dead conscience rose in 
protest. He knelt by the body of his friend, he 
grasped his hand, and called his name aloud in agony. 
He put his hand to the heart — it fluttered and 
then stopped. His friend was dead. 

“Then madness came upon the Herr Meyer. He 
shrieked, he cursed, he called upon the name of God 
Whom he had despised, and then he cursed the day 
he was born, his father, his mother, his Creator!” 

The Herr Pfarrer raised his hands before his 
eyes as if to shut out the vision. 

“Then calmness came, a great calm, and his 
brain worked automatically. He must preserve him- 
self. He thought with terror of the hideous Turkish 
jail. The light in the lantern flickered. God ! Would 
he be alone in the dark with the body. He put forth 
his hand to seize the Gospel, his prey, but he shrank 
back in horror. There was blood on it. With a 


68 



“He thought with terror of the hideous Turkish jail.’’ 







THE LOST GOSPEL. 


shriek he turned, and plunging into the tunnel, crept 
back to the shop of the Arab. He pushed into place 
the heavy slab which covered the entrance into the 
tunnel and passed out into the darkness of the night. 

‘‘For days he kept his head and joined the 
search parties. He was never even suspected of the 
murder, and so he escaped the justice of man. But 
the justice of God fell on him. Remorse ate his liv- 
ing soul. He could not eat or sleep, and finally he 
went insane and was sent back to Europe.*' 

‘‘A wonderful story, Herr Pfarrer, but just 
where was the mosque which was tunnelled? What 
mosque was it?” I asked anxiously. 

asked him only once,” said the Herr Pfarrer. 
“A look of deep cunning came into his face, and he 
whispered, while his hands worked: 

‘So, you, too, would make the discovery. Don't 
you know what happens to those who seek before 
the time?' 

“I was afraid he was going to attack me, but he 
calmed down. After that he lost all confidence in 
me for a long time, and so I have never ventured to 
ask him since.” 

“What of it?” I asked roughly. “This discovery 
is of more importance than the sentiments of a 
madman.” 

The Pfarrer's eyes shone as he said softly: 

“Perhaps the madman was right ; we search be- 
fore the time. I have thought it out in this way. 
In every crisis of the Church, God has sent special 


69 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


aid. Augustine came to give the death-blow to Pa- 
ganism, Loyola to check the Reformation, your own 
America was discovered when Germany and Eng- 
land were lost. In some great crisis of the Church, 
when even the Bible seems lost, God will lead some- 
one to that underground chamber to find the Lost 
Gospel. The bones of the young Hungarian will be 
lying near it, its solitary sentinel ; his spirit will be 
still guarding the great treasure, the Lost Gospel.” 

As I said in the beginning, I did not believe the 
story when the Herr Pfarrer told it, and I thought 
he must have been imposed on by the ravings of a 
madman. Since I returned to America, however, I 
received a letter from him telling me of the death of 
Herr Meyer. He related that the German was con- 
scious a long time before death and perfectly sane, 
and that he died repentant; also, that he confirmed 
in every detail the story of the Lost Gospel. He had 
not revealed the secret of its whereabouts, and the 
Herr Pfarrer had not wished to ask any question 
which might change his good disposition and en- 
danger his soul. 



70 


REFORM OF THE UNION CHURCH. 


The destination of nations is fixed by small ca- 
sualties, just like individuals. 

I never expected when I started for the Grand 
Central that night with Nick that we were out for 
a lecture tour. But you never can tell what’s going 
to happen with Nick around. He’s got the greatest 
mind of any man I ever knew, it’s that quick. It’s 
like a Big Ben with the alarm always fixed at Oppor- 
tunity. As soon as the hand strikes it — Bang ! goes 
Nick’s mind. 

We were tired of New York and funds were 

low. 

‘‘We’d better get back to nature,” said Nick, 
“We need the money.” 

So we were at the Grand Central waiting for a 
train to take us to the sunny climbs of the Tennes- 
see Mountains, or any resort — it didn’t matter much 
where, so long as it was South. We hadn’t worked 
the South yet. 

Nick had his grip loaded with vaseline bottles 
and labels advertising Dr. Cheyenne’s celebrated lini- 
ment, good for man or beast, an assortment of New 
England carot diamond rings, books on the inter- 
pretation of dreams, and a receipt for the aging of 


71 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


whiskey just discovered by the eminent German 
pathologist, Dr. Rotenstein: all — all, to be sold to 
the mountain aborigines of prohibition states for the 
ridiculously small sum of fifty cents. 

Then something happened. An absent-minded, 
clerical looking individual, right next to us, took a 
look at his watch, and with a bound disappeared to- 
wards the tracks. Nick, with great presence of mind, 
pounced on the gent's suit-case at once. “Come on,” 
said he, “he's gone toward the street.” 

“No,” said I, pointing in the opposite direction. 
“He went this way.” 

“All right,” says Nick. “Our train must be in 
by this time anyhow.” 

Would you believe it, sir, we couldn't find that 
cuss nowheres. We looked up and down that car 
after we got in it, and we looked out the windows, 
and half an hour later, when the train pulled out, 
there we were with another suit-case on our hands, 
or rather under the seat where we had put it for 
safety. 

“Mighty inconsiderate of that fellow,” said I to 
Nick, “going off that way and leaving us in charge 
of his baggage. Wonder what's in it.” 

“Pretty heavy,” says he, giving it a shove with 
his foot. “Perhaps there's glass eyes. He did look 
something like an astrologer.” 

“More likely soap,” says I hopefully. 

“No,” said Nick with scorn. “A highbrow like 
that peddling soap!” 


72 


REFORM OF THE UNION CHURCH. 


‘'Books then/' 

‘'Let's open it and see." Nick was always prac- 
tical. 

We opened it and saw a number of small wooden 
boxes marked "Handle with care !" 

"Dynamite," says Nick looking scared, but I 
tumbled the minute I saw the pile of manuscripts in 
the corner. 

"Lecture-fakir's kit," says I, disgusted like. 
"Lantern-slides." 

"You needn't get so mad about it," says Nick. 
"I've always had a hankering after a more intellec- 
tual line of business, and mebbe I'll go into the lec- 
ture field. Pretty popular you know, since John 
Henry Newman, Austin Dobson Hobson and Sher- 
lock Holmes took it up." 

We dropped it there, but I could see it was on 
Nick's mind. 

The kit did come in handy after all. We had 
been hitting hard luck steadily, selling our wonderful 
assortment, "all for the small sum of half a dollar, 
gents," and when we struck Colinville we were 
pretty shy on cash. We got there on Saturday even- 
ing, and, togged out in our week-day and Sunday 
best, we hit the Main street. 

"Oh for Broadway," I sighed, "and the lights. 
Honest, Nick, I'm homesick. Nothing in this town 
tonight but a strawberry supper in aid of the New 
Union Church." 

"Religion seems to be the only thing prospering 


73 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


around here,” says Nick. love to see religion 
prosper. It’s good for the soul and good for the 
body, rd like to help them on, I would — now 
wouldn’t one of those lectures be a godsend to this 
benighted town. I’d like to spread a little 'kul-tur’ 
here, right from Broadway! ’Twould help religion 
greatly I’m thinking, and I have a debt to religion 
ever since I collected for the mission to the Kyack 
cannibals of the Indigo Isles. We’ll go to church 
tomorrow.” 

I protested mildly, but Nick was set on it. I 
could see that lecture-germ was working in him. So, 
next morning, clad in our soberest and godliest 
raiment, we set out for the conventicle, and got seats 
right under the pulpit. 

The sermon was a whopper. All about patriot- 
ism, the schools, the Constitution, and the Flag. The 
preacher wound up with a heavy artillery attack on 
Romanism, and knocked it all into smithereens as a 
danger to the Constitution and the Flag. It seems 
these Romanists had lately built a school somewhere 
in the neighborhood, and all Colinville lay awake at 
night for fear of the Pope. 

I must say I never saw Nick so religious. As 
the preacher thundered away, Nick gravely nodded 
assent at the telling points. His '^Amens” at the 
prayers were models of unction. He was the first 
to find the lesson in Scripture. I always knew Nick 
had a weakness for religion, but I never noticed it 
so much before. 


74 


REFORM OF THE UNION CHURCH, 


Service over, we stopped to greet the minister. 
Nick began by praising his sermon. I knew he had 
some game on, and kept mum till Fd get my cue. 

First thing I hears Nick say, “Yes, we're agents 
of the International Gospel Alliance — offices on 
Fifth Avenue, New York. We were on a lecturing 
tour when my friend here. Ex-monk Celestine, had a 
nervous collapse, and we're terra incognita just at 
present, until he recuperates. But this mountain air 
has built him up wonderful. I'd like to see you in 
private." 

“Delighted," says the minister, grabbing my 
hand and beaming on me, “delighted to meet one 
who has shed the shackles of Rome." 

“Rome," says I, solemn and impressive-like, try- 
ing to remember what he said in the sermon, “is im- 
possible." 

“Just my idea," says he, “un-American, the In- 
quisition, and all that." 

Nick made a date with him then and there for a 
more prolonged interview that afternoon. 

I stayed home. The shattered condition of my 
nerves, which Nick had forced on me as part of the 
Celestine outfit, kept me in. Nick returned trium- 
phant, and made three great salaams before Ex- 
monk Celestine. Then he announces that I am billed 
to lecture in the Union Church on Tuesday evening 
at 7.45 sharp, on the well-known subject, “The Error 
of Rome." 

“What!" says I. “What do I know about the 
Error of Rome I" 


75 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


‘‘Get busy,” says he. “Ain’t you got that lecture 
on the Roman Error all writ out in the suitcase, with 
letters of recommendation from ministers galore for 
speaking at their churches ?” 

“Why, you big Jay,” says I, “there’s no lecture 
on the Roman Error — that lecture’s on the Roman 
Era. That means time, period, comma, semi-colon — 
anything but what you mean.” 

“Well,” says he, taken back some. “I’ll bet 
there’s error enough in that for fifty, twenty-five, 
and ten cents. That’s all I intend to charge. Be- 
sides, if I could change Edmund Celestine, the name 
of that lecture fellow in those letters of recommen- 
dation, into Ex-monk Celestine, with a little acid 
and a fountain pen, I don’t see why you can’t change 
Roman Era into Roman Error with your glib tongue. 
Meanwhile lay low. I hear there’s a few stray Irish 
in town.” 

Tuesday the town was billed: 

EX-MONK CELESTINE 
on 

THE ERROR OF ROME. 

Benefit of the Union Church. 

I followed his orders and stayed in my room all 
day Tuesday with a sick headache, caused by the 
shackles of Rome, meanwhile trying to frame up 


76 


REFORM OF THE UNION CHURCH. 


some sort of a story. Believe me, it was easier to 
sell soap than to write that lecture. Never again! 

Nick came back Tuesday night tired but en- 
thusiastic. 

‘‘Ex-monk Celestine,” says he, “the town is wild 
to hear you. Fve been to see all the deacons in 
town with the minister, and Fve got the Ladies' Aid 
on the job. You're certainly going to have a packed 
hall that night. There's been a paper called the 
‘Minus' circulating around here that's got them all 
stirred up. I've brought you a copy. You'll find 
some fertilizer in it for your lecture. Of course I've 
lived too long in New York to believe that sort of 
stuff, though I don't hold with these Romishers. But 
these rubes around here believe its Gospel truth, and 
they'll want some of that stuff in your lecture." 

“See here, Nick," says I, “I don't take to this 
lecture business at all. It's all your idea, and if you 
want lectures, go and lecture yourself." 

“They wouldn't listen to me," says he, grinning, 
“they want to hear Ex-monk Celestine. They're wild 
to hear him. The Ladies' Aid are going in a body. 
The story I told them of your persecutions and suf- 
fering for the Gospel would make your hair stand 
on end, if you had any." 

“Now, see here, Nick," says I, looking at the 
paper, “if you think that I, an honest, decent man, 
though at present in bad company, am going to get 
up before women and children and talk like that 
paper, you're mistaken." 


77 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


‘‘Now, just keep busy,’’ says Nick soothingly. 
“We need the money badly. You’re a help to reli- 
gion. Won’t you do something for the money, the 
Flag, and the Constitution? Shame on you; you 
don’t show the patriotic spirit I thought was in you. 
Anyway you’ve got to go on with it because we’re 
broke. Meanwhile lay low, keep on being sick: it 
keeps them talking. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t make the price a dollar, but 
they’re a cheap crowd. I’m going to sell the tickets 
myself with the help of the Ladies’ Aid. The minis- 
ter wanted to handle the cash and pay us ten per 
cent., but I told him that was my duty, and I’d do 
it or die. I wouldn’t listen to the ten per cent. Money 
was no object to us. The Association paid all our 
expenses and we could leave the offering to him. This 
generous offer won him over, as at first he didn’t 
seem to trust us Gospel lights and martyrs as much 
as I thought he ought to. But those letters of 
recommendation were pretty good.” 

Next day I was besieged by visitors inquiring 
about my health, but on Nick’s advice I stayed in 
and saw no one, but plugged away on the lecture. 
I knew it would never do in a city, but I thought 
I could get away with it in those backwoods. 

Nick returned jubilant from the ticket sale. 

“Nearly every man, woman, and child in Colin- 
ville has invested,” he said. “You’ll have a packed 
church. You’ll think you’re back with the Roman- 
ists again, for, as far as I can see, the packed 


78 


REFORM OF THE UNION CHURCH. 


church is a peculiarity of theirs. Work of the La- 
dies' Aid specially commended ; they certainly 
helped. I took in just two hundred and twenty-five 
dollars and forty cents." 

“Nick," said I, “I always knew you were a 
religious man, but I never thought to see you work- 
ing like this for the good cause. I’m proud of you ! 
But what of the Gospel workers — ^what are we going 
to get out of this? That’s what puzzles me more 
than the Roman Error. I read that paper you gave 
me, but I’m blowed if I’m going to talk all that rot. 
I’ve got a conscience, I have, and not even for the 
Union Church and the money am I going to talk 
like that. Why, it’s not fit to eat." 

Nick looked at his time-piece. “Pretty near 
lecture time,” says he, indifferent-like. “I ordered 
a carriage around here for 7.15. Let’s have supper." 

We ate supper, and Nick settled the bill from 
the lecture proceedings. I had my manuscript, and 
was figuring it out with appropriate gestures and 
a good cigar when the carriage appeared ! 

“Come on,” said Nick. 

We took our grips and jumped into the carriage. 

“Union Church, Sah. Yes Sah," said the darky, 
helping Nick in. 

“No, you boob," said Nick, “the railroad station, 
and be quick about it," slipping him a long green. 

“All right, boss," said the puzzled darky. “Just 
as you say, Sah.” 


79 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


‘Train leaves at 7.30/' said Nick. “We've just 
got time to make it." 

“But the people — the lecture," I gasped, “they'll 
all be there." 

“Oh," said Nick easily, “I just sent them word 
you were too ill to appear, and told them to post- 
pone it a week. I asked the minister to say a few 
words instead — that'll keep them guessing." 

“Nick," said I severely, “I thought you were a 
reformer." 

“I am," he answered. “Don't all reformers help 
themselves to the Church's money?" 

I had to admit that in this respect Nick was as 
good a Reformer as any of whom I had ever heard. 

Strange, how people will pay good money to 
hear fakirs talk about the Catholic Church ! Would 
they pay to hear the truth? No! — they wouldn't 
receive it gratis. 



80 


DENDERAH. 


When Col. Pinckney applied to the American 
consulate at Cairo concerning the character of the 
Egyptian guides, Abdul Suleman and Mohammed 
Ben Ezra, the Consul-General was puzzled what to 
answer. He knew these fellows had the reputation 
of being sharpers, and yet where is the Oriental 
dragoman, or European tourist agent for that mat- 
ter, who will not feed fat upon his natural prey, the 
American tourist, if he gets a chance. 

Abdul and Mohammed were well known at 
Cairo, for they had been trusted with tourist par- 
ties for years in Egypt, but nevertheless they were 
looked upon as a shade sharper than even their 
Egyptian associates. Their recommendation to the 
ordinary tourist would not have caused the Consul a 
second thought, but Col. Pinckney of the old Caro- 
lina family of that name, millionaire cotton planter, 
and friend of the President, from whom he bore 
a personal letter, was a person of more than ordi- 
nary importance, and so the Consul hesitated. 

He passed them, however. As his secretary 
pointed out, they were products of the British Pro- 
testant Mission School, and *'we must favor our own.'' 
Even if they did separate the Colonel from some 


81 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


of his change, he could afford it; and besides, they 
would do it so artistically that the Colonel would 
never be any the wiser. So the Consul-General 
contented himself with having the contract between 
the Colonel and the Egyptian dragomans drawn up 
and witnessed before him. 

It was the usual agreement recommended by 
Baedecker to all tourists. The guides were to ac- 
company the Colonel and his daughter during their 
two months' stay in Egypt, and were to receive a 
suitable recompense, half of which was paid when 
the contract was signed, and the other half was to 
be paid at the consulate when the tour was finished. 
The Consul, as arbiter, was to settle all disagree- 
ments that might arise. 

He took the Egyptian aside after the signing 
and said : ‘‘Let there be no complaint on the part of 
His Excellency, for if there be any, by Jove and all 
the gods of high Olympus, you will do no more busi- 
ness with my people." 

‘‘Effendi," answered the smooth Mohammed, 
bowing low, ''By the beard of Allah, we will guard 
him as the apple of the eye." 

But the Consul, however, was not yet satisfied, 
and accordingly gave a word of warning to the Col- 
onel. 

"They're honest enough for guides," he said, 
"but pretty sharp. Be on your guard with them, 
and pay no more than your contract calls for, no 
matter what they urge. You are perfectly safe with 


82 


DENDERAH. 


them except in money transactions. They will not 
steal, but they will get the better of you in business, 
if you are not very wary.^' 

The Colonel laughed with easy assurance. ‘T 
guess an American can handle those fellows,^’ he 
said. 

“All right,” answered the Consul-General. “Fve 
warned you, remember. And now, a happy trip. I'll 
see you when you come back in a couple of months, 
and we'll arrange a little dinner in honor of your 
daughter. All the boys here are longing for an in- 
troduction,'' he said, indicating the secretaries. 

The Colonel laughed, for he was intensely proud 
of Kate, his only daughter. “The picture of her 
mother,” as he often said, “and her mother was the 
handsomest woman in New Orleans, sir.” And then 
his eyes would grow suspiciously dim, and he would 
blow his nose violently to hide his emotion, for only 
the previous year he had buried his beloved wife 
Marie, and he felt her loss keenly. 

The first part of the journey up the Nile was 
in company with friends from America, whom they 
had met at Cairo. The whole party had chartered 
a small steamer, one of the usual Nile variety, a 
flat-bottomed affair suggestive of a house boat, which 
made its way very leisurely along the river — but 
then who hurries in Egypt. It had large and airy 
cabins and ample deck space, was well equipped with 
steamer chairs, hammocks, large awnings to shade 
from the sun, beautiful rugs under foot, — in a word. 


83 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


it had all the comforts, not to say luxuries, that go 
with a Nile steamer. 

By day the boat crawled up the river through 
the little thread of green fields which constitutes 
habitable Egypt. In plain sight, at times, were the 
besieging forces of the arid desert, ever striving to 
advance on the fertile fields of the river banks, but 
ever driven back by the annual foray of the Nile in 
flood. Now and then the party stopped to disem- 
bark for a short trip to the various temples or re- 
mains of ancient cities along the route. By night 
the boat was always tied up to the shore, for the 
visitors wished to lose nothing of the great scene 
by sailing past under the cover of darkness. 

The Colonel did not take to the lazy life as well 
as his daughter had hoped, and often paced the deck 
in a restless way, especially at night when the others 
had retired. His companion was invariably the guide 
Mohammed, who smoked innumerable cigarettes, 
and told stories to the fascinated Colonel of the 
Egyptians, ancient and modern, and their peculiar 
beliefs. The Colonel was interested especially in the 
tales of the Temples and Pyramids — enduring 
witnesses to the ancient belief in immortality, and 
living evidences of the cult of the Spirits — for 
the Colonel was a sort of amateur believer in spirit- 
ualism, and was profoundly interested in it since his 
wife's death. 

Mohammed was quick to see the Colonel's inter- 
est in this direction, and told story after story of 


84 


DENDERAH. 


the wonderful spiritualistic powers of the ancients 
and of the cult of the dead. The Colonel took care 
that his daughter did not hear any of these weird 
tales, for, like her mother, she was a Catholic, and 
was intensely opposed to spiritualistic practices of 
any kind. Once, when in London, the Colonel had 
proposed that they attend a seance, and she had 
spoken her mind quite freely about “devil worship,” 
and not only had she refused to go herself, but she 
had even insisted that the Colonel accompany her to 
the Opera that night. He warned Mohammed, there- 
fore, never to broach the subject when she was pres- 
ent. 

“She is just like her mother,” he told him. “She 
looks like her, and acts like her, and will have her 
way, too. Catholics, you know, are apt to be super- 
stitious.” 

Mohammed wisely agreed. He had heard worse 
things than that said of Catholics, and he began to 
repeat some of them, but the old man would not allow 
it. 

“It is the religion of my wife and daughter,” he 
said, “and I know they’re all right except in a few 
things.” 

They were about two weeks out from Cairo, and 
next day were to visit the Temple of Denderah. As 
they were to make an early start, the party had re- 
tired sooner than usual, but the Colonel remained 
up to take his evening promenade on deck. Mo- 
hammed was with him, and had brought the subject 


85 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


around to the spirits again. The moon shone down 
on the splendor of the Nile as they walked and 
smoked, and the Colonel really felt awed, as he re- 
flected on the traditions of the ages guarded in this 
mysterious land. 

Suddenly Mohammed asked him : '‘Effendi, 
pardon the suggestion, but if the Effendi is really 
interested in the spirits, there is over there,^^ and he 
pointed to the desert, 'The most wonderful Temple 
to the dead in Egypt, and there the spirits can be 
easily evoked. It is not visited by tourists, but I can 
arrange it, and there the Effendi could see for him- 
self the spirit of the one he loves best, called back 
according to the rites of the ancient Egyptians. 
There the incantation to the spirits has never been 
known to fail. Your Excellency has studied spirit- 
ism, and knows that the spirits do not respond if the 
surroundings be not favorable, but there in the Tem- 
ple they always respond to the call of Egypt.” 

The Colonel hesitated. He knew that his daugh- 
ter would object, but he was deeply obsessed by curi- 
osity in these matters, for of late there had been a 
void in his soul, and he felt the need of religion. 
Often he had envied his wife and daughter in their 
calm and serene faith. He had never investigated it, 
however, for while his wife was good, pious and lov- 
ing, she was not intellectual, and so her faith had 
never impressed him as anything more than super- 
stition. 

But now he wanted faith, and he longed for 


86 


DENDERAH, 


some assurance of immortality. Though he believed 
the soul to be immortal, he wanted tangible evidence. 
He wanted to see and touch the spirit world as he 
would the world about him. He had never prayed 
since he was a boy, and no ray of the supernatural 
lighted the caverns of his soul. Of all this he was 
unconscious, for he did not know himself. He was 
not introspective, — healthy men seldom are, — and 
all he knew was that his soul was reaching out for 
something it did not have — that there was a void 
within, dark and empty. 

There was something his wife and daughter 
enjoyed which he did not possess. He thought of it 
as a pearl of great price, which only profound search 
in the occult would procure. Religion was to him a 
mystery, and he had no idea that it was something 
that he was stumbling over every day in the week — 
that God had put that pearl of great price in the way 
of all men when He founded the Catholic Church. 
And so he had become interested in Spiritualism in 
the hope that he would find there the religion he de- 
sired. 

He decided to go. He would penetrate the mys- 
teries of the Temple of the Dead, and satisfy the 
curiosity of his soul. But his daughter must know 
nothing of it; she would be dismayed, upset, and 
even hurt. He had already planned to visit the 
Temple of Denderah the next day with her. The 
problem was, how could he and Mohammed visit 
the Temple of the Dead without her knowledge. 


87 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


Mohammed was watching the Coloners face as 
he walked up and down the deck. Secretly he de- 
spised this old man, who was actually afraid of his 
daughter, but he remembered that Americans were 
women- worshippers. In the East women were slaves, 
but in America it was the men who were enchained. 

He spoke aloud in answer to the doubt that he 
could see, from the pucker of the ColoneFs forehead, 
was forming in the ColoneFs mind. 

‘We could start an hour earlier than the others,"' 
he said. “I will have Abdul, who will remain with 
them, explain that we have gone off on a little ex- 
ploring tour. When one is gone, there is no more to 
be said,” and he shrugged his shoulders, “and they 
will go off by themselves to visit the Temple of 
mighty Athor of Denderah, while we seek the Tem- 
ple of the Dead. But, of course, it is in the hands 
of the Effendi,” and he spread out his hands, palms 
upward, and looked unblinkingly with his great eyes 
at the moon. 

The Colonel's curiosity was profoundly stirred 
by this time, and he said: “We shall go, Moham- 
med, and get away earlier than the others. You will 
call me.” 

“Yes, Effendi,” said Mohammed bowing low, 
while the faint suggestion of a sneer trembled along 
his lips. 

Next morning when Mohammed rapped lightly 
on the Colonel's cabin, he received an immediate an- 
swer. In fact the Colonel had slept but lightly, for 


88 


DENDERAH. 


dreams and visions had haunted him through the 
night. At first he had almost regretted that he had 
promised, but he was a man of courage, and a man 
of his word. He would not retreat now. He dressed 
quickly, and steadied his nerves by a cup of strong, 
black coffee. Accompanied by Mohammed, he has- 
tened over the gangplank to the shore, where a cou- 
ple of good sized donkeys were waiting for them. 

They mounted, and rode on in silence. It was a 
wonderful day. A light, fresh breeze was blowing, 
and the sun was just rising with a coppery glare, 
clouded and obscured in a low-lying gray cloud. The 
fields on the river banks were fresh and green, and 
from the distance they heard the plaintive songs of 
the fellahin, the peasants, who chanted the same 
weird tones which their ancestors had sung when 
the pyramids were built in this land of mysteries, 
thousands of years before. 

They arrived at the tawny desert, not flat, as 
the Colonel had imagined, but ridged by rolling hill- 
ocks of sand, behind which the river and the little 
steamer were soon hidden from view. They had 
ridden into the desert only a few miles when Mo- 
hammed pointed ahead to a great temple on the 
horizon. 

‘The Temple of the Dead,” he said impres- 
sively. 

Some time later he added deprecatingly, 

“This is a very extraordinary service I render 
you, Effendi. I have never taken a tourist here be- 


89 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


fore. It was not in the contract, and I must pay well 
the priest in charge. I must make a large offering.” 

‘'How much ?” asked the Colonel roughly. “The 
eternal bakschisch of the Orient,” he thought. 

“Five pounds,” said the Egyptian. “It is very 
little for what you shall see, and I ask nothing for 
myself.” 

“If I see what I hope I may see,” answered the 
Colonel, “ni give you ten times that amount for 
yourself.” 

A smirk of satisfaction passed over the dark 
face of the Egyptian. 

When they came to the Temple, the Colonel 
was surprised at its ample magnificence and almost 
perfect proportions. Unlike the severe and simple 
grandeur of the older temples he had seen, this one 
was sumptuously decorated. The Temple itself was 
half buried by great drifts of sand, but the portico 
was clear. Six great columns, three on either side 
of the wide entrance, elaborately carved and over- 
laid with hieroglyphics, supported the heavy lintels, 
themselves delicately sculptured. The Colonel re- 
mained in his saddle for a moment to admire the 
massive building, and then began to dismount. The 
guide stopped him with a gesture. 

“We enter by the other side,” said the Egyptian 
in explanation. Mohammed led the way to the rear 
of the Temple, where there was a very narrow door. 
There they dismounted. The Egyptian turned and 
salaamed toward the rising sun, now well over the 


90 


DENDERAH, 


horizon. He looked at it long and critically, shading 
his eyes with his hand, and then he looked at his 
watch. 

“The sun is not high enough, and the incanta- 
tion of the priest has not begun,” he said to the Colo- 
nel. “If the Effendi will give me the gold,” he half 
whined, “I can give it to the priest.” 

“Here it is,” said the Colonel, counting out five 
gold sovereigns. 

“The Effendi will wait here,” said the Egyp- 
tian, indicating a fallen column and spreading a 
blanket on it. “I shall not be gone long.” 

“Fll go, too,” said the Colonel rising. 

“It is forbidden,” he answered sternly, and then 
in a wheedling tone, “Effendi is not yet of the ini- 
tiate.” 

“Huh !” thought the Colonel, “Fve paid my ini- 
tiation fee.” 

Into the dark recesses of the Temple the Egyp- 
tian plunged, while the Colonel sat waiting. 

In about half an hour the dragoman returned, 
saying “All is ready. The incantation has begun, 
but again we must wait — the sun is not yet high 
enough.” 

He sprang lightly to a higher eminence, which 
commanded a view of the road over which they had 
come, and sat, waiting, waiting. Every now and 
then he consulted his watch impatiently, but finally 
he seemed satisfied. Meanwhile the Colonel had 
grown somewhat restless. He speedily tired of ad- 


91 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


miring the structure before him, and fell to speculat- 
ing on the expanse of desert about him and the un- 
canny atmosphere in which he was placed. Every- 
thing about him suggested the spirits of the dead. 

is time, Effendi,'' said the dragoman. ‘'But 
a word of caution. As you value your life, do not 
speak nor move when the spirit appears. We must 
wait for about a quarter of an hour, and then the 
spirit will respond to the incantation. But I warn 
you solemnly, do not move toward it, nor attempt to 
speak to it. Do you promise ?” 

“I promise,” said the Colonel. 

Together they entered the narrow door and 
went up a flight of stairs. The Egyptian was pro- 
vided with tallow candles, which shed a very feeble 
glow of light, but the Colonel could see mysterious 
Egyptian hieroglyphics and paintings everywhere. 
They traversed long dark corridors through a num- 
ber of small chambers, and passed one great room 
where there were stone tombs containing the bodies 
of Egyptian Kings of centuries ago. Mohammed 
seemed to the Colonel to be the very spirit of Egypt 
of old, guiding him whither, he knew not. 

They halted in a small chamber at the end of a 
long corridor, which led from the tombs of the 
Kings. Mohammed extinguished the lights. “We 
must wait in darkness,” he said. 

The Colonel was not afraid, but was glad that 
he had his revolver with him. As he sat in the 
darkness, it seemed to his overstrained senses that 


92 


DENDERAH, 


the place was full of whisperings. Once he thought 
he heard the patter of a naked foot along the cor- 
ridor — then again all was silence. He moved impa- 
tiently. 

“How long must we wait now?’' he muttered. 

“Patience, Effendi,” whispered the Egyptian, 
“and silence. We’ve been here only a few minutes. 
We must wait at least ten more. The incantation 
lasts nearly an hour. I have never known it to fail.” 

“If it fails,” said the Colonel grimly, “I’ll — ” 

“The Effendi shall have his five pounds back, 
and five with it,” said the Egyptian confidently. 

The Colonel, ashamed at his impatience, and at 
the construction which was put on his threat, re- 
mained silent. 

The place was stifling, and there was 
an air of hideous oppression about it. The Colonel 
felt as though he would smother. Yet, his senses 
were keen, and he was on the alert. The antique 
and awful desolation of the tombs overwhelmed him. 
It was positively eerie. Certainly it was a place 
where ghosts might walk — a place fit only for the 
ghosts of the damned, for to wander about in that 
place of abominations would be no respite, even from 
Hell. 

Then he heard more whisperings. The Egyp- 
tian placed his hand on the Colonel’s shoulder. 

“Silence,” he hissed. 

The Colonel could hear the sound of many 
voices now, a compressed murmur which seemed to 


93 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


float into the room from the shores of eternity, so 
distant was it all. And then he heard the sound of 
muffled voices close at hand, and far away in the 
darkness he saw a light slowly gather. He held his 
breath, and perspiration beaded his forehead. The 
light increased in intensity. It seemed to his excited 
imagination to assume strange and fantastic shapes. 
It grew clearer and clearer. 

‘‘My God he breathed. There was a form in 
the midst of it, a woman's form. He could see the 
head and shoulders outlined. Suddenly a great light 
flashed like the flare of a torch. Indeed, he could 
see the torch and the shadowy arm holding it, — but 
his whole attention was centered upon the spirit of 
his wife, which he now saw plainly, looking even 
lovelier and younger. Only her head and shoulders 
were visible. He could not restrain himself. 

“Marie," he whispered, and started towards 

her. 

The Egyptian was on him in an instant. The 
Colonel thought he heard a startled cry, and the 
same instant the torch was extinguished. The faint 
light that remained grew dimmer every moment. 

“You should not have spoken," said the Egyp- 
tian sharply. “You promised." 

“I know it," said the Colonel, “but I could not 
help it. It was wonderful, wonderful, wonderful." 

Somehow or other he had lost his fear. He did 
not feel as though he had witnessed a spirit, but 
rather flesh and blood. 


94 


DENDERAH, 


‘‘Come; let us go/’ said the Egyptian quickly, 
“The priest will be angry that you spoke/’ 

This time they emerged by the wide door at 
the front of the Temple. They found their donkeys 
tethered there, but the Colonel asked no questions — 
he was still too stupefied by the marvellous occur- 
rences. They made their way back to the steamer 
quickly, the Colonel riding as one dazed. 

The rest of the party did not return until sun- 
down, and they were full of enthusiasm about the 
marvellous temple they had visited — but the Colonel 
gave them few details about his experiences. 

When he was refreshed from his adventure, he 
handed over to the Egyptian a note on the Bank of 
Egypt for fifty pounds, according to his promise. 

That night the Colonel paced the deck in silent 
thought. Mohammed had come to join him as usual, 
but the old man waved him away, saying that he 
wished to be alone. Indeed he wanted to live 
through the marvellous experience of that day 
again. 

One thing had struck him especially. As his 
wife had peered at him through the darkness, and as 
he had whispered “Marie,” her hand had gone up as 
if in fear, and he had seen something like a chain 
flash brightly in the light of the torch. He knew 
what it was — it was her rosary. Often, as he was 
coming home at night, she would meet him on the 
veranda, where she had been saying the rosary as 
she awaited him. When the bright turquoises would 


95 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


flash in her hand, he would say impatiently, ‘Tut 
that thing away, Marie,'' and she would half smile 
and half sigh at his unintended irreverence. 

And now she had held the rosary toward him as 
if offering it to him. Often he had seen it, too, in his 
daughter's hands. Was there something in this 
Catholic faith that he needed ? He resolved to think 
more about it. 

In fact, a few weeks later he volunteered to ac- 
company his daughter to Mass in the little chapel 
at Luxor, where Robert Hugh Benson first was 
drawn to Catholicity. She told him the story of the 
great convert, and noted with hopeful delight his 
intense interest. She was overcome with joy to hear 
him answer: “Kate, I'm thinking of becoming a 
Catholic myself some day." 

“Thank God, father," she answered. “It was 
the life prayer of my mother, and I have prayed 
earnestly myself that you might see the light." 

“I don't quite see it yet," he answered, “but 
when I do. I'll become a Catholic" — ^and he did, and 
was received into the Church by the Archbishop of 
New Orleans on their arrival home. The latent 
mysticism of his own nature was satisfied by the 
mystical side of Benson's writings, and he followed 
the famous convert into the Church. 

Many years later he told his daughter the story 
of the apparition. She was incredulous. 

“I don't believe it, father. The soul of my dear 


96 


DENDERAH, 


mother answer the incantations of those demon wor- 
shippers ? It is impossible.” 

And then a great light dawned on her. She 
hesitated for a moment before she would reveal it to 
her father, but finally she told him of a strange ex- 
perience that she had the very day he saw the sup- 
posed spirit. 

She had been surprised to find her father gone 
with Mohammed, but Abdul reassured her, and re- 
mained in charge of her on the trip. With the others, 
they had gone to the Temple of Athor. 

‘Tather,” she cried, *‘can't you see? There^s 
only one Temple there at Denderah and that's the 
Temple of Athor. You have described it perfectly. 
You were within when we arrived, and Abdul dis- 
tracted me at once, and we lost the rest of the 
party. He calmed my fears by saying we would re- 
join them in an instant, and he then led me to the 
tombs of the Kings at the end of the corridor on 
which you were watching. The lights you saw, 
slowly forming, were simply our candles, which lit 
up the angle as we approached. He had given me a 
veil to put on, as he said there were bats in the place, 
and he made me shroud myself in it. When I was 
placed where you could see me plainly, Abdul lit a 
resinous torch. 

‘T thought I heard a whisper, and I raised my 
hand instinctively. My rosary was in it, for I was 
frightened in that dismal place, and was saying the 
beads as I went along. The next moment Abdul 


97 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


dropped the torch and we were in darkness, but he 
lit the candles and led me out in a few minutes. 

‘*We went in by the wide door in the front of the 
Temple, and came out through the narrow door in the 
rear. Mohammed's pretending to watch the sun, and 
all that fandangle, was simply to keep you waiting 
until our arrival. As soon as we appeared, he led 
you in by the rear door. We entered by the front. 
The boys then shifted the donkeys from side to side, 
so that you did not suspect our presence, nor we 
yours." 

The Colonel threw up his hands. 

*'Kate," he said, *'you're a wonder. You should 
have been a detective. So that's why I was led out 
by the front door." 

‘‘And we by the rear," laughed Kate. 

“But," objected the Colonel, “I saw only head 
and shoulders floating in the air." 

“That was easy, father." She laughed with re- 
lief when she saw how well he took it. “There was a 
tomb between us. In fact, it was just where I stood, 
for I leaned on it, and it cut off the rest of me from 
view." 

“And I used to say that you and your mother 
were superstitious because you were Catholics ! 
After all, Kate, the really superstitious people are 
the people without Faith. Having nothing to be- 
lieve, they believe everything. If I had been a Cath- 
olic then, I would have known that all the pretended 


98 


DENDERAH. 


mummery and incantation, and all the rest of it, was 
rot, pure and simple. 

'‘Those fellows simply played on my supersti- 
tion, just as a whole lot of fakirs work the American 
people every day. Ever since Fye become a Catholic 
I suspected that, somehow, I had been fooled, but I 
couldn't make it out. However, it was the best 
fifty-five pounds I ever spent in my life, and I thank 
God for it — ^for it started me thinking and reading, 
till I thought and read myself into the fold." 

"You mean, till I prayed you into the fold,” 
laughed Kate. "My knees were worn out praying 
for you, you dear, obstinate old heretic,” and she 
patted him affectionately on the shoulder. "And 
mother, in Heaven, helped, Fm sure.” 

"Yes, Fm sure she did,” said the Colonel medi- 
tatively. "It's good to know, through Faith, that her 
soul is safe in the hands of God, beyond the power of 
the incantation of the scum of Egypt.” 



99 


UNPATEIOTIC MRS. DACEY, 


Brackett Street was all upset. It had been so 
for some time. Let me hasten to explain to the pro- 
vincial that Brackett Street is very exclusive and 
very American. It is so exclusive that until very 
recently, not a stranger has secured a house upon 
this Via Sacra, for more than twenty years. It is 
so American that there is not an “alien'' on it ; three 
“Daughters" are found among its thirty select fami- 
lies, and nearly everyone is entitled to a pension or 
is related to someone who could draw one if he 
wished. 

You surely must have heard how very exclusive 
and American is Brackett Street. If you doubt its 
sterling patriotism, walk through it some holiday 
and note the Flag flying from every house. You 
will agree with me, then, that devotion to the Flag, 
if not the only virtue of the Brackett-Streeters, is 
their chief virtue, and they don't care who knows it. 

The “Daughters" are naturally the idols of the 
woman folk, and old Capt. Bartlett was the hero 
among the men. 1 say “was" advisedly, for the Cap- 
tain, the chief glory of Brackett Street, is dead, or, 
as they would put it, has passed beyond. Death is 
such a horrid word. The Great Captain had sum- 


100 


UNPATRIOTIC MRS. DACEY. 


moned him to the eternal camp, as the minister had 
phrased it in his eloquent address at the obsequies. 
The principal of the neighboring school had referred 
touchingly to the demise of Captain Bartlett and 
held him up to the youth of the neighborhood as 
their guide and model in this short but patriotic life. 
One of the * ^Daughters” too had referred to his pass- 
ing away in the annual patriotic address at the 
nearby Settlement House, where she tried to impress 
the sterling Brackett Street patriotism upon the 
young foreigners whose parents had sought our hos- 
pitable shores, flying, as she elegantly but vaguely 
put it, from the religious and civil oppression of 
Europe. 

Yes, Captain Bartlett, it grieves me to tell you 
at the outset of the story, was passed beyond, and 
the Bartlett estate was for sale. There was some 
attempt at concerted movement to buy the place 
to keep out strangers, especially ‘‘aliens,” but the 
concert was not so harmonious as might have been 
expected, and money not so plentiful since railroad 
stock went down. The house was in the hands of a 
crude real estate man, who certainly didn’t appre- 
ciate the fine feelings and lofty sentiments of Brack- 
ett Street, — indeed, he seemed to be interested only 
in making money. 

Accordingly in a shocked whisper the news 
soon travelled up and down the Street that 
a stranger, worse still an “alien,” had bought the 
estate. Some said a Jew, others a German, but the 


101 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


postman closed the discussion, the first day after 
the family moved in, (while all Brackett Street 
watched from behind closed curtains) by saying, 
‘^Mrs. John Dacey.” That settled it — they were 
Irish. 

There was a tea that afternoon at one of the 
''Daughters,'’ and the new neighbors were discussed. 

"There are no children at any rate, and that's a 
blessing," said one "Daughter," a maiden lady, but 
an optimist. 

"No children! Are you sure?" exclaimed an- 
other one of the ladies present. "These Irish gen- 
erally have ten or twelve, I understand." 

"Perfectly sure," she answered calmly, "I saw 
them, a rather old lady, and her two daughters. 
Mrs. Andrews knows ; she lives next door to them." 

Mrs. Andrews, thus appealed to, nodded assent. 

"I suppose," snapped another lady, whom I re- 
gret to label a Pessimist, "that this is the beginning 
of the end of Brackett Street. Once these foreign- 
ers get in, there's no stopping them. I think I'd 
rather have anyone than Irish," she concluded un- 
grammatically — but we can pardon the lady a slip 
of the tongue in excitement. 

"They seem to be nice people," observed chari- 
table Mrs. Andrews quietly. 

A young girl present, under this encouragement, 
ventured forth. "They are nice people, too. The 
girls teach in the public schools, and we belong to 
the same gymnastic class." 


102 


UNPATRIOTIC MRS. DACEY. 


“Madeline !” protested her mother severely. 
Madeline blushed under the implied reproof, and re- 
tired. 

“Well,"' said one of the Daughters enigmatic- 
ally; “we shall see what we shall see. They have 
no children, and that’s a blessing. Tomorrow is the 
19th of April. The girls are public school teach- 
ers ; they may have imbibed some lessons of patriot- 
ism there, but it will be very strange if, for the first 
time in all these years, Capt. Bartlett’s house will 
have no Flag, and I for one believe there won’t 
be any.” 

Next day, when many curious but patriotic eyes 
turned towards Capt. Bartlett’s house, it did seem a 
pity — there was no Flag flying. The great white 
pole, the largest on the street, erected years ago, 
stood like a sorrowful spectre mourning past glo- 
ries. Every day of his life Capt. Bartlett had 
hoisted his Flag in the morning and lowered it rever- 
ently at night. Here it was the 19th of April, and 
although all the rest of Brackett Street was decor- 
ated, I regret to say that the prophecy of the 
“Daughter” was fulfilled. The unpatriotic Mrs. 
Dacey had no Flag flying. 

“They’ll put it out on St. Patrick’s day, or on 
the Pope’s birthday,” snapped the pessimistic lady. 

“They’ll chop the pole down altogether,” re- 
marked the “Daughter” who had already scored as 
a Prophetess. A shudder ran over her audience. 

Sure enough, a few days later, Brackett Street 


103 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


was shaken to its very foundations. Workmen ap- 
peared, the sound of the axe was heard in the land, 
and the great while pole tottered and fell. It was a 
sacrilege. It was a rude attack on the chief virtue 
of the street — Patriotism. They could hardly be- 
lieve it, but the pole was certainly gone. It con- 
firmed all they had ever heard or read about the in- 
herent disloyalty of aliens to the Flag. The public 
Schools and the Settlement had both failed. They 
had not made Mrs. Dacey patriotic. 

An indignant assembly gathered at tea that 
afternoon, a sort of minute-man affair, at the resi- 
dence of the aforementioned “Daughter*^ of proph- 
etic instinct. She of the patriotic speeches in the 
Settlement made a stirring address. It was an in- 
sufferable indignity, this slight to the Flag for 
which their fathers had fought and bled, and, anti- 
climatically, she observed that it was also a reflection 
upon the patriotic traditions of the Street. She 
thought a committee ought to wait at once upon 
unpatriotic Mrs. Dacey and ask her to restore the 
badge of honor and the good name of Brackett 
Street, up to this time peopled only by good Amer- 
icans. 

One of the ladies present, a peace-at-any- 
price character, ventured to remark that, while she 
perfectly agreed with everything the distinguished 
‘'Daughter’' had so beautifully said, nevertheless she 
understood that these Irish were people of very vio- 
lent temper, and she thought that instead of an im- 


104 


UNPATRIOTIC MRS, DACEY, 


posing delegation of three, who might meet with 
hostility, perhaps if one, Mrs. Andrews, a next door 
neighbor, or Madeline who knew the girls, would 
make a friendly call, she might obtain the views of 
these ‘^aliens'' about the Flag, and might, in a 
friendly missionary way, bring them to see the light, 
and urge them to live up to it. Quite breathless 
from her little speech, but delighted with herself, she 
sat down. 

Madeline's mother was pleased at the attention 
being diverted to her daughter, who, unfortunately, 
was not present, and said she would urge her to call. 
She reckoned without Madeline. When she told the 
daughter of the mission entrusted to her, she was 
shocked to hear the reply. 

'"Go spying for those old cats? It's none of 
their business whether Mrs. Dacey hangs a Flag out 
or not, or pulls her flag-pole down or not. I'll have 
nothing to do with it." 

‘What will I do !" cried her mother in distress. 
Madeline had never been so independent before. 
Surely it was the result of association with those 
aliens in the gymnastic class. 

“Go and ask Mrs. Andrews," answered her 
daughter. “She is their next door neighbor and 
rather likes them, but yet is enough of a Brackett 
Streeter to want to poke into their affairs." 

Her mother wrung her hands at this bold her- 
esy, and went on her mission to Mrs. Andrews. That 
lady gladly accepted the commission, and called on 


105 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


Mrs. Dacey next day. Mrs. Andrews had spoken to 
her new neighbor before, but this was her first for- 
mal call. 

Mrs. Dacey, a kind, motherly old lady in black, 
received her cordially and thanked her for her visit. 
So pleasant was her reception that she almost forgot 
her mission, and when she recollected it she was at 
first embarrassed, and then somewhat ashamed. But 
in affairs of state, ambassadors must be diplo- 
mats, — they must sacrifice private sentiment for the 
public good, — ^and so she began: 

see you had your flag-pole cut down the 
other day.” 

‘‘Yes,” answered Mrs. Dacey, “it was very old, 
and it swayed so in the wind, I was afraid it would 
fall, and so I had it cut down.” 

Mrs. Andrews quite lost her breath for an in- 
stant. That answer was so unexpected. 

“It seemed to be a very fine pole,” she began 
again, — “er — do you intend to replace it, may I ask?” 

“No,” answered Mrs. Dacey quietly. 

“We shall miss it very much,” remarked Mrs. 
Andrews with more courage. Quiet-mannered Mrs. 
Dacey certainly did not look like a violent-tempered 
or aggressive person. 

“You know we Brackett-Streeters are very con- 
servative and hate change. We had grown quite 
accustomed to seeing the familiar old flag-staff, and 
now it seems as though something were missing. 
Old Capt. Bartlett flew the Stars and Stripes every 


106 


UNPATRIOTIC MRS. DACEY. 


day of his life. Brackett Street is quite patriotic, 
you know. I suppose you noticed that everybody 
decorates here for holidays. It seemed strange to 
see the old house without its Flag on April 19th." 

A look of pain came into Mrs. Dacey’s eyes, 
and her face grew sad. 

‘‘I noticed the Flag on the other houses,” she 
answered softly. never put it out on mine. It 
makes me so lonesome. Two of my brothers were 
killed in the Civil War, and my only son died of 
fever at Montauk Point during the Spanish-Amer- 
ican war. The Flag is on their graves, you know.” 

When Mrs. Andrews made her report at the 
‘‘Daughters' ” tea that afternoon, it was moved and 
seconded that all further agitation cease, and the 
vote was carried unanimously. 

Brackett Street never talked any more of “un- 
patriotic” Mrs. Dacey. 



107 


COWARDLY FRA LUIS. 


Fra Luis was an arrant coward. I grieve to 
speak in this way of a son of chivalrous Spain, of a 
son of the heroic St. Dominic, of a priest of the 
Church of the Martyrs, — but if I am to tell you the 
truth about Fra Luis, I must begin by admitting 
that he was as great a coward as ever walked in 
sandals. The cloister, they tell us, has often been 
the refuge of cowards, of men afraid to face the 
battle of life, and while I hold this to be absolutely 
false and a calumny of the enemy, I must admit 
that it was true in the case of Fra Luis. 

Indeed he would have been the first to admit 
it himself. I believe he was rather glad of it, for 
he loved even the flowers of the monastery garden, 
which seemed to him to blossom finer and fairer 
than even those cared for by the loving hands of 
his mother. He was at home in the heavenly peace 
of the cloister with the solemn chant of the friars at 
midnight, when all the world slept; in the great li- 
brary with its '‘Opera Omnia” of St. Thomas and 
the Fathers; and most of all, in the little chapel 
with its stately conventual mass — he was at home 
in it all, he loved it all, and thanked God often from 


108 


COWARDLY FRA LUIS. 


the bottom of his heart that the Lord was the por- 
tion of his inheritance. 

When Don Alfonso Maria Alejandro Guillermo 
de Miranda, his father, a Spanish nobleman, had first 
seen the future Fra Luis in the arms of the nurse, 
he had remarked the diminutive size and delicate 
appearance of the infant, and had him baptized im- 
mediately. The father had never loved him as much 
as he did his three older and sturdier sons, and had 
often remarked that Luis should have been a girl. 
Once he saw the young Luis shrink back from the 
great hound that guarded the door, and on another 
occasion he noticed with grave displeasure that the 
timid lad clung in fear to the horse’s mane, in his 
first attempt to ride. 

But to the mother, who had cared for and nur- 
tured the delicate boy, he was the favorite. And so, 
many tears she shed when the father remarked one 
night, 

“Our family has always given a man to the 
Church, and Luis is a born monk. He is too great a 
coward to fight the battles of life, and the monas- 
tery walls will shelter him. He is a good pious lad, 
always at his books, and if he has a vocation, I shall 
be very happy. Tomorrow we will send him to the 
Friars to see if he is called to the life.” 

Tears, half bitter and half sweet, the mother 
shed; bitter at the thought of parting with her 
favorite, sweet at the thought of dedicating him to 
God. It was a sacrifice for her, a great sacrifice, but 


109 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


should not one give to the good God the very best 
and dearest ? 

The boy Luis responded with all his soul to the 
call of the higher life, and eventually became Fra 
Luis. A few years after his ordination he was sent 
from his beloved Spain to the Philippine Islands in 
the year of Our Lord, eighteen hundred and ninety- 
seven, as I verified by consulting the records of the 
Dominican headquarters at Santa Sabina in Rome, 
where the General of the Order resides. 

Of all the misfits ever sent out from Spain, Fra 
Luis was surely the greatest, for if any quality 
was needed in a Spanish friar in those early days 
of Filipino insurrection, it was courage, and in this 
he was sadly lacking. Physically he was not strong, 
and with his delicate constitution, as happens fre- 
quently, went a very vivid imagination. Stories that 
the friars read or heard of the progress of the insur- 
rection and of its anti-clerical character, filled Fra 
Luis with dread. His teeth would chatter and his 
knees quake under him if he had to cross the cortile 
at night, and behind every bush he thought he saw 
some insurrecto hiding, with bolo in hand, ready to 
carve him in two. 

This was his terror in Manila, where everything 
was comparatively quiet, and where he was perfectly 
safe ; but it was as nothing to what the future had 
in store for him. Imagine his consternation when 
the Prior sent for him one morning and told him 
that he was to report at the little monastery of San 


110 


COWARDLY FRA LUIS. 


Reymundo at Macabebe, a small village of the Pam- 
pamgos, in the very heart of the insurrection. When 
he received the order from his Superior, he turned 
deathly pale, his heart turned to water within him, 
and he could scarcely rise from his knees, where he 
had dropped for the Prior's blessing after his mission 
had been assigned to him. But obedience was the 
rule, and Fra Luis set out. 

One great gift he had, and that was an extraor- 
dinary facility for acquiring new languages. This 
remarkable gift of tongues had probably determined 
his superiors to send him to the Pampamgos, whose 
dialect was very difficult. At any rate, after a weary 
journey he joined the little group then living at 
the monastery of San Reymundo, and was 
warmly welcomed by his brethren, (there were only 
six of them), and true to the expectations of his 
superiors, he learned the language quickly enough. 

But what a terrible change for the pious young 
friar from the Catholic faith and practise of loyal 
Spain. Only a few women came to church at San 
Reymundo ; the men remained away. The Prior ex- 
plained to the astonished Fra Luis that the men were 
afraid to come to church lest they be killed by the 
insurrectos ; that nearly all belonged to a secret oath- 
bound society. Even the porter of the monastery 
itself, a Filipino who lived with his family in the 
little house at the gate, never dared to enter the 
church. 

In fear and trembling for their lives the friars 


111 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


maintained the conventual routine, and did what 
they could for souls. Many, like Nicodemus of old, 
came for consolation and absolution in the dead of 
the night. The friars never went even on a sick call 
without fearing that they were running into an am- 
buscade, for they knew that the devilishly-inspired 
insurrectos, with their Masonic society, hated the 
Church and all that represented her, especially the 
religious orders. 

Into this atmosphere of fear and hate, which 
would have struck terror into the bravest soul, was 
thrust the timid, yes, I say it again — the cowardly 
Fra Luis. Trembling he fell on his knees before the 
Superior on the very day of his arrival at San Rey- 
mundo, and with tears in his eyes begged that he 
would not be sent outside the walls of the monas- 
tery. He confessed that he was afraid of death, — 
that he was a coward. The kindly Superior, who 
pitied the young friar from the bottom of his heart, 
lifted him up and said: 

‘*Va bien, hijo mio. We will let the strong 
hearts here do the men's work, and you shall take 
care of the children. Is it well ?" 

Fra Luis could hardly speak with his sobbing, 
but he thanked the Prior from his heart, and set 
about his work of teaching catechism to the children 
who came to the monastery. He never ventured 
outside the walls into the town which lay before 
them in the valley, but he could not altogether avoid 
the terror of the outside world. Stories of massacre. 


112 


COWARDLY FRA LUIS, 


of murder of monks and nuns, and stories of sacri- 
lege worse than massacre in the neighboring monas- 
teries, found their way frequently into the little 
community, and his cheeks would blanch and his 
knees knock together when he heard them. Fra Luis 
was not of the stuff of martyrs, and he wondered 
what would happen if he were called on to attest the 
Faith with his life. Earnestly he prayed to God 
for strength. 

Finally his turn came, for one night at San Rey- 
mundo the church was raided, the sacred vessels 
were stolen, and the Hosts strewn under foot. The 
insurrectos did not penetrate the monastery itself, 
but fired a fusilade of bullets at it, and one of these 
penetrated the window of Fra Luis’ cell and lodged 
in the wall high over his head. Absolutely unable 
to move because of his fright, he had covered his 
head with the sheet, and when the bullet struck the 
wall above him, he thought his hour had come, and 
lay there shivering in the dark until all was quiet. 
Next day the friars, taking what they could with 
them, left for Manila. It would be suicide to remain 
longer. With the American occupation things were 
restored to an outward semblance of peace and pros- 
perity in Manila, and the heart of Fra Luis grew 
lighter. Only at night he would grow heartsick — 
he would lie awake and shiver at the thought of the 
lonely monastery of San Reymundo, and of the poor 
friar. Fra Bartolomeo, who had been sent back there 


113 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


alone to work in the parish under American protec- 
tion. 

American protection ! Alas, what could the scat- 
tered patrols do ? They did as much as could be ex- 
pected, but to restore order and peace in the outly- 
ing districts was difficult, and often the protection 
against outrage came too late. This was what hap- 
pened in the case of Fra Bartolomeo, for one morn- 
ing, in spite of American protection, he was found 
dead in his cell, his head severed completely from 
his body. The little community at Manila had grown 
so accustomed to murder and outrage that the Prior 
in announcing his death to the community simply 
said: 

‘We will rejoice rather than feel sorrow at the 
death of Fra Bartolomeo, another martyr to the 
glory of Holy Church and St. Dominic. There are 
souls there, and we must care for them at all costs, 
and there is,^’ and he sighed, “the American protec- 
tion. They have promised that they will station a 
guard permanently in the village. Some one must go 
who knows the language,” (Fra Luis turned deathly 
pale as the Prior turned to him), “and so we send 
Fra Luis. He will leave tomorrow.” 

Fra Luis scarcely heard the conversation of the 
friars at recreation afterward. He talked mechanic- 
ally, talked and talked without knowing what he was 
saying, for the fear of death was in his heart. He 
dreaded the loneliness of the dreary valley, he who 
relied so much on the support of his brethren, and 


114 


COWARDLY FRA LUIS. 


now he must stand alone. He had sworn obe- 
dience; there was the holy rule, the rule that he 
loved so much, and its cardinal point was obedience. 
Yes, he must obey. 

He did not sleep that night; the picture of the 
lonely monastery and the deadly valley was ever 
before his sleepless eyes. He was haunted by tor- 
turing visions of Fra Bartolomeo, whom he knew 
and loved, lying in his cell, his body on the straw 
pallet covered with gore, his head thrown out into 
the monastery yard. He closed his eyes in horror 
lest he would see the sightless eyes peering at him 
from the darkened corners of the cell. Obedience, 
holy obedience — he tried to sleep but could not. He 
could hear the shouting of the men, the rifle shots, 
he saw the deserted tabernacle and the Hosts 
strewn on the altar. He could see them dragging 
Fra Bartolomeo from his cell. He could see the keen 
bolo flash through the moonlight, as with one great 
blow it severed the head from the body. 

His brethren kissed him the next morning on 
his leaving, in the loving way of brethren, and 
wished him Godspeed. The Prior too was very kind. 
Fra Luis responded mechanically to all and set out on 
his journey, and, though his very lips were pale, he 
kept murmuring to himself, **Obedience, holy obedi- 
ence, it is the rule.” 

He arrived safely at the deserted monastery, ac- 
companied by some American troopers. The surly 
porter greeted him coldly, the troopers left, and he 


115 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


was alone. That night he was thoroughly exhausted 
and slept soundly. Arising the next morning, he said 
Mass. The troopers were quartered in the village, 
but he had not much faith in them, and deadly fear 
had not left him. He received the Blessed Sacra- 
ment as if it were his last Communion, and spent a 
long time in thanksgiving. 

After Mass the porter, in great anxiety, met 
him. ‘‘My child is dying of the fever,” he said. “Has 
the Father perhaps some medicine ?” 

The friars were always doctors of the body as 
well as of the soul in their missions, and Fra Luis, 
glad to be busy — to forget — ^found in the medicine 
chest the remedy for the fever, and administered it 
to the child, who in a few hours showed signs of im- 
provement. The surly porter suddenly became al- 
most reverent. His gratitude was deep and touching. 

Fra Luis was surprised to see him appear at 
supper with a freshly killed chicken, and even more 
surprised when he asked to go to confession. The 
Friar shuddered and hid his face in his hands as he 
listened to the revelations of the guilty soul. With 
trembling hand and shaking voice he absolved the 
penitent, and the next morning at Mass the porter 
received Holy Communion. 

That night Fra Luis slept lightly. About mid- 
night he was rudely disturbed — a woman's scream 
shrilled through the stillness of the night. He tried 
to rise, but he could not. He was weak with fear 
and the cold sweat gathered on his forehead as he 


116 


COWARDLY FRA LUIS, 


lay there expecting instant death. Then fell a ter- 
rible silence. A little later he heard the scuffle of 
feet beneath his window. 

With chattering teeth he tried to say his pray- 
ers ; he folded his hands as if already dead, and lay 
there waiting, waiting, — but the noise ceased. All 
night he lay awake, and with the sunlight arose, 
weak and sick. He went to the window and threw 
open the shutter. 

“0 God he cried, and shrank back. 

Right at his window, staring in through the 
pane, with sightless eyes wide open and hair matted 
with blood, was the head of the surly porter, impaled 
on a long stake, driven into the ground. The night 
of terror, culminating in this bloody sight, was more 
than Fra Luis could stand, and with a shriek he fell 
insensible to the ground. 

When he came to, it was late. How long he had 
lain there he did not know, but there was the Office 
to be said, and the holy Mass. The rule, the rule — 
he must keep the holy rule. He dragged himself 
to the church and found that this morning it was 
deserted. He said Mass, feeling sure this time that 
it was his last. He received Communion as on the 
morning before, and, remained for a long and trem- 
bling thanksgiving. He could not eat — ^and then he 
remembered the woman's shriek. It must have been 
the porter's wife, and he grew cold at the thought 
that he would find new murders. 

A noise at the door made him turn, and there he 


117 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


saw the unfortunate porter’s wife with a great band- 
age on her head, and sobbing as if her heart would 
break. Forgetting his fears for the moment, the 
cowardly Fra Luis hastened to console her. She 
started back when she saw him, as if he were a 
ghost. Indeed the white robe, the pallid face, and 
the staring eyes, dark-circled, made him appear more 
a spectre than a living man. 

‘Thank God, thank God, Father” — she burst 
into tears and sobs. “I thought they had murdered 
you,” and then she told the story that Fra Luis 
partly knew, for he had heard it in confession from 
the surly porter only two days before. 

“They came. Father, to kill you, the Secret So- 
ciety.” She shuddered, and looked around the little 
chapel. “To speak of it is death. My husband was a 
member — it was join or die. Through him they 
gained access to the cell of Fra Bartolomeo whom 
they murdered. But when you cured the child, he 
swore that they would not kill you, and that in grati- 
tude he would return to his duty to God. They came 
last night. I shrieked, and they struck me down, 
and then they murdered him as a traitor. 

“And now. Father, fly — fly — I tell you to fly for 
your life. I have sent for the troopers. They will 
be here in an hour. Go with them in the name of 
God, for if you stay here you will be surely mur- 
dered. Go back to Manila whence you came.” 

“Fly! Fly!” The cowardly Fra Luis almost 
smiled. This good woman, then, had never heard of 


118 


COWARDLY FRA LUIS. 


the holy rule, and obedience — obedience was its car- 
dinal point. Fly ? Leave here without the command 
of his superiors ? It was absolutely impossible. This 
good woman did not understand — what could a 
woman know about the rule, and obedience? 

Together they buried the body of the unfortu- 
nate porter in the little cemetery. Fra Luis was 
glad to be busy, to do anything to escape the tragedy 
of life. He was such a coward he was afraid he 
would go insane if he thought too much. 

The troopers came and found the Friar burying 
the body. The sergeant in charge was a Catholic, 
but he swore long and deeply, knowing that the Fra 
did not understand English, and realizing that it was 
the only way he could express himself adequately. 
He could not explain his wishes to the Father, but by 
expressive signs and wonderful gesticulations, he ar- 
gued long that Fra Luis should leave the place under 
his protection. 

The Father understood, too, very well, the signi- 
ficance of all the signs, but what could one expect 
of heretics — they knew nothing about the holy rule. 
They had never heard of it, and how could he leave 
the place without the orders of his superior? If he 
could get over that obedience, he would, oh! so 
gladly go — but there was the rule, the holy and in- 
flexible rule, and obedience was its cardinal point. 
All the gestures and signs of the good-hearted sol- 
dier were wasted on Fra Luis, and so the trooper 


119 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


departed alone, but he vowed that he would keep a 
special watch over the monastery. 

That night the sergeant could not sleep. The 
wind sighed dismally, and the curtain of his tent 
flapped back and forth until he fastened it. He 
composed himself to sleep, but still he could hear the 
wind moaning through the mango groves, and it 
bothered him. He tossed about restlessly. Once he 
thought a bright light flashed in the sky. He 
looked out at the stars, fearing a storm, but they 
were shining brightly overhead. Later he thought 
he heard a shriek. He listened long and intently, 
but all was as still as the grave. 

He knew he was uneasy about the lonely Fra 
at the monastery, and yet he was angry with him. 
Why couldn't the fellow be sensible and come along 
with them — and then he found himself admiring the 
Friar's bravery. It was the first time that anyone 
who knew Fra Luis had ever thought of him 
as brave. 

He wished he could be assured that all 
was right at the monastery. He would not turn out 
the men because of his uneasiness — after all there 
was probably nothing the matter, and he did not 
want to raise a false alarm. He would go himself. 

Day was breaking when he mounted his horse 
and galloped up to the monastery. All was as still as 
death, but with the gravest misgivings he noticed 
the great gate wide open. He entered, and saw the 
body of the porter's wife lying in a pool of blood 


120 


COWARDLY FRA LUIS, 


near the door of the monastery itself. Signs of a 
struggle were evident; her hands were outstretched 
where she had fallen, as if she had tried to keep the 
intruders out. Her body was hacked and torn. She 
had defended the door with her life. 

His blood ran cold at the terrible sight, and with 
revolver in hand he stepped cautiously into the dark- 
ened corridor through the door which had been bat- 
tered down. Through the empty building he stole 
till he located the room of Fra Luis. He looked in, 
and a terrible spectacle met his eyes. 

The headless body of the Fra was stretched on 
the coarse pallet of straw, his white robe stained a 
deep crimson as the blood had poured forth from nu- 
merous cuts and thrusts. The head at first he did 
not see, but soon he discovered it placed upright on a 
small writing table. He marvelled at the peace and 
serenity of the expression. The eyes were closed 
and the lips almost smiled. The cowardly Fra Luis 
had fled before his enemies to eternal peace. He 
would never more be disturbed by them, he never 
more would be afraid, and so he smiled. 

The rough soldier, with tears in his eyes, took 
the body reverently in his arms. ‘Tt is a sacrilege,” 
he thought, 'Tor me to touch it — a holy martyr. Oh 
God, I am not worthy.” 

The squad buried the man of peace with mili- 
tary honors, and the shots re-echoed through the de- 
serted monastery. A week later the Prior in Manila 
announced to the community the death of Fra Luis, 


121 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


to the glory of Holy Church and the honor of St. 
Dominic, and Fra Tomas set out the next day to take 
his place under American protection. 

9i: 4: * 

In America the papers gave the murder of Fra 
Luis a brief mention as another instance of the un- 
popularity of the Friars. Our yellow press shrieked 
louder than ever ‘The Friars must go,'^ while with 
sublime inconsistency we built statues to comme- 
morate them in the West. 

In Spain a mother knelt before the Madonna di 
Dolores, and with tears streaming down her cheek, 
renewed again her willing sacrifice, and wished she 
had still more to give to God. 

In the Tyrol a student, on reading the account 
of the martyr's death in the Annals of the Propaga- 
tion of the Faith, heard the call of God and joined 
the Society of the Divine Word, volunteering espe- 
cially for service in the Philippines. 

Ye crucifiers of the Body of Christ, in Mexico, 
in Portugal, in France, in Russia, or in our own 
United States, we fear ye not. Let loose the gates 
of Hell itself, they shall not prevail against the 
Rock. Even our cowards will be given strength to 
withstand you, and God will use the weak to con- 
found the strong. 

Fra Bartolomeo is dead. Fra Luis is dead. Fra 
Tomas may die, but Christ will not die and the 
Church lives on in Christ. “Behold I am with you 
all days even to the consummation of the world." 


122 


THE DOUBLE TRAITOR. 


It was only a short newspaper dispatch, and 
no details were given, but my heart sank and my 
blood ran chill, when I read that Lieutenant Peter 
Obregon had been shot as a traitor. Obregon dead ! 
I could scarcely believe it, — so young, so full of life 
and vigor was he when last I saw him. 

It is almost a year since I read of his execution 
in Mexico by a firing squad. I remember well that 
day, for it happened to be the Feast of the Chair of 
St. Peter at Rome, which occurs on the eighteenth 
of January. 

I'm afraid I read my office on that day with 
more than the usual distractions. I could think of 
nothing but Obregon, blindfolded, facing his own 
troops, while they fired the fatal shots. My thoughts 
were very little with the great St. Peter at Rome, as 
I read the responses to the lessons in the office. 

**lf thou Lovest Me, Simon Peter, feed My 
sheep.” 

‘‘Lord, Thou knowest that I love Thee.” 

Yes, Obregon, these words applied to you once. 
Alas ! No longer — for you were a traitor, a double 
traitor — a traitor to the Church which you once 
hoped to serve as a priest, a traitor to the First 


123 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


Chief ; otherwise you would not have been compelled 
to face the firing squad. 

‘'Even if I should die with Thee, Lord, I will not 
deny Thee.” 

Oh, Obregon, my friend of old, once you too 
would have had these words ready on your lips, had 
occasion demanded, for you were a good pious lad in 
those days, and quick and impulsive like your patron, 
St. Peter. And yet, like Peter of old, when the 
time came, you denied your Lord. Like him, I pray 
God, you repented. 

‘T have prayed for thee, Peter, that thy Faith 
fail not.” 

Yes, indeed, I have often prayed for you Peter, 
ever since I heard that you were serving in the army 
of the First Chief, that your Faith would not fail, 
for I liked you, Peter Obregon, even if the press 
says you were shot as a traitor. 

Thus my office was read with sad distractions, 
for I had known Obregon well, when we were stu- 
dents together in Rome. The first time we met was 
at the Sala Pia, where the various seminary choirs 
had been assembled in one vast chorus to take part 
in the music of the Jubilee Mass of Pius the Tenth, 
under the direction of the great Perosi. Ordinarily 
the students of the national colleges in Rome do not 
meet each other, especially when they attend differ- 
ent universities. Obregon lived at the South Amer- 
ican College and went to lectures at the Gregorian 
University, while I lived at the North American 


124 


THE DOUBLE TRAITOR, 


College, and sat under the professors of Propaganda. 
So, it was only on such an occasion that we could 
become acquainted. 

At the great rehearsals, we were grouped as 
tenors, baritones and basses without regard to na- 
tional divisions, and so I found myself next to a 
young Mexican, whose name I soon learned was 
Peter Obregon. He was a chatty, sociable lad, and 
I enjoyed his vivacious comments on everybody and 
everything at the various rehearsals. There seemed 
to be a bond of sympathy between us, as Americans, 
and we found that we had much in common to talk 
about. Later, when I was a post-graduate and more 
free, I often met him at Babbington's in the Piazza 
di Spagna, where I frequently dropped in to tea 
after an afternoon walk. 

Truth to tell, the first time I saw him there I 
was surprised, as seminary rules are strict in Rome, 
and I noticed that Obregon gave the rule, which for- 
bade students to enter stores, a very liberal inter- 
pretation. Indeed, it was a reckless thing for him 
to do, for it meant expulsion from the seminary if it 
came to the knowledge of his superiors. 

Spying me at one of the tables, he came over 
immediately, his frank boyish face lit up with a 
broad smile, his dark eyes sparkling, and he asked 
if he might join me. 

‘‘With pleasure,” I answered. “I am glad to see 
you, Peter.” 

After a little conversation I said abruptly, “Pe- 


125 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


ter, though Fm pleased to have you with me, aren^t 
you making very light of your vocation? Don't you 
realize that you are risking expulsion and all that 
that means, just for the sake of a little pleasure?" 

He laughed cheerily, and mocked a little at my 
seriousness. Then he confessed that he was think- 
ing of leaving the Seminary, and that this accounted 
for his indifference to the rule. 

‘T find the life too restrained, too irksome," he 
said with a gesture of impatience. ‘T want my 
freedom. I was never sure of my vocation, and my 
father was utterly opposed to my entering the Semi- 
nary, and has always been urging me to leave. He's 
a liberal," he said half defiantly. 

‘"Oh," I said, '‘and your mother?" 

“Dead, God rest her. She put the idea into my 
head and urged me to try, at least. So I have tried, 
and I like it well enough at times, but my father's 
letters urging me to leave upset me. I have taken 
no sacred orders, and I intend to quit at the end of 
the term." 

When I bade him good-bye that evening I did 
not dream I would never see him again. I supposed 
he would forget his difficulties and remain at Rome, 
but to the sorrow of the students and faculty, among 
whom he was a general favorite, he carried out his 
resolve and left for Mexico at the end of the term. 

I met his friend and classmate, Don Luis Mo- 
reno, shortly afterward, and told him I was sorry 
that Peter had left. 


126 


THE DOUBLE TRAITOR. 


“Oh/' he answered, “it was the sensible thing to 
do — though, sometimes, I think he had a vocation. 
It is the bad influence of his father, a liberal, which 
has upset him. I fear he will suffer for unsettling 
Peter by his constant appeals. But, you know, we 
Latins take a very sensible view about the Semi- 
nary. We believe it is a trying-out place. Many 
come in, not sure of their vocation, and very sensibly 
drop out when they find the life does not appeal to 
them. We do not consider it a waste of time, for 
the boys get a good education, and a good training, 
and no one criticises them if they leave.” 

“It is different with us,” I remarked. “Often- 
times a man is blamed, if he leaves, as a man who 
has put his hand to the plough and has turned 
back.” 

“Yes,” answered Don Luis, “I have heard that. 
It is a cruel and unreasonable view to take, and Pm 
sure it is because people do not understand. After 
all, it is impossible to be sure of a vocation until one 
has tried. That's what the Seminary is for.” 

“I don't think Peter made a mistake,” I said. 
“He was a splendid character, but he had no regard 
for rules and regulations. He went his own undis- 
ciplined way, and God knows we must have disci- 
plined men in the priesthood more than anywhere 
else. Then he was of an unsettled disposition, light, 
restless and adventuresome. Perhaps it was for the 
best, Luis,” I concluded after a pause. 

“Perhaps,” he agreed. “But we miss him aw- 


127 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


fully. He was the life of the place. He was so cheer- 
ful, so frank, so lively — ” 

“Let me know from time to time how he is get- 
ting on,” I begged. 

“Certainly,” answered Luis warmly. 

He was pleased with my interest in his friend, 
and wrote from time to time after I got back to Bos- 
ton. The first news that he sent surprised and 
grieved me, for he told me that Peter, on his return 
to Mexico, had joined the army of Carranza. This 
unfortunate step was due to the influence of his 
father, who was a liberal of anti-clerical tendencies, 
and who sided with the rebels. Perhaps, also, his 
own restless and adventuresome spirit would not 
allow him to remain inactive in such stirring times. 

It was distressing news, and so I prayed for 
Peter that his Faith would not fail. I knew that if 
the light-hearted, impulsive lad had only stopped 
long enough to weigh matters seriously, to con- 
sider the characters and principles of the men with 
whom he was associating himself, he would never 
have joined the irreligious and blood-thirsty Carran- 
zistas. Once with them, however, he was lost. Little 
by little he would fall, oh my God, into the horrible 
and sacrilegious crimes which, in recent days, at our 
very doors, have stained the name of civilization. 
(Oh Liberty, what crimes men commit in thy name !) 
And so, Peter, I prayed for thee that thy faith would 
not fail. 

As the revolution progressed in intensity, I lost 


128 


THE DOUBLE TRAITOR. 


all track of Obregon, save for occasional mentions in 
dispatches. I looked in vain for news that he had 
left the anti-clerical bandits with whom he had allied 
himself, but instead I read that he had been made 
a Lieutenant on the staff of the First Chief himself. 
Then indeed I abandoned hope. I concluded that he 
had finally denied his Lord, like the great St. Peter, 
and then I prayed for his conversion, hoping that he, 
too, would go out and weep bitterly. 

And now he was shot as a traitor. Yes a traitor, 
I thought sadly, to God, and to the First Chief, — 
a double traitor. God grant that he had the grace 
of repentance before he died the shameful death. 
My heart was filled with bitterness and sadness. 

I tried to pray for the wretched old man, his 
father, but I could not. He was to blame, he who had 
lured the boy from God and the Seminary, and had 
allowed him to serve the devil and Carranza. The 
wretched father was richly punished now, as are all 
those who turn their backs on God and the Church 
to serve the devil and the world, for, though the 
mills of God grind slowly, they grind exceeding fine. 

A double traitor — Obregon whom I called friend, 
who was so frank and careless and free, who had not 
a bit of smallness or treachery in his soul. What 
diabolical influence had changed him in the short 
space of one year? 

Little by little I learned the sad story, a frag- 
ment here and a fragment there, but chiefly from 
the letters of Don Luis Moreno, a refugee in Mexico 


129 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


City, and from a poor Mexican laborer who found 
his way even to far-away Boston from the land 
where he had witnessed such horrors. 

Obregon had been successful as a soldier from 
the very beginning. His superior education, for he 
spoke a little English and was master of French and 
Italian, and his frank and joyous disposition, made 
him a favorite with all, even with the dour First 
Chief himself. His dashing bravery in action also 
commended him, and so he was made a staff officer. 
In fact, he became such a general favorite that the 
jealousy of another young staff officer was excited. 

Whether Obregon continued openly to practise 
his religion or not, I was not able to learn, but I was 
glad to hear that, on several occasions, he showed his 
horror at the sacrileges committed by the army. 

Once when the troops were pillaging a town, he 
stood at the door of a convent with drawn sword, 
and protected the trembling women within. Another 
time, seeing soldiers carrying precious vessels from a 
church, he struck the pillagers with the flat of his 
sword, and, taking the chalices reverently, restored 
them to the terrified priest. 

This latter incident was reported to the First 
Chief, who reprimanded the young Lieutenant 
sharply for his zeal in defense of clericalism, and his 
lack of consideration for the soldiers. The young 
staff officer did not take the reprimand well, and 
answered boldly that the soldiers were thieves, and 
that he proposed to stop unnecessary pillaging wher- 


130 


THE DOUBLE TRAITOR. 


ever he observed it. The First Chief was intensely 
angry at this insubordination, and, with difficulty 
controlling himself, placed the lieutenant under ar- 
rest for a few days. 

Unfortunately, there was present at this inter- 
view the staff officer who was the rival and enemy 
of Obregon. He saw the beginning of the differences 
between Obregon and the First Chief, and strove 
daily, by whisperings and stories, to widen the 
breach. He waited a good opportunity to make the 
break permanent, and it soon came. 

A report from the civil authorities of the town 
of Chuaha, near the American line, and only half a 
day’s journey from the Carranza headquarters, was 
delivered to the First Chief. It denounced particu- 
larly the priest there as a man who, despite regula- 
tions, and without authorization, continued to cele- 
brate Mass, to preach to the people, and to adminis- 
ter Sacraments. Moreover, it was reported that he 
had been a Huertista. 

That was sufficient. The anger of the First 
Chief flamed into fire as he read. These priests 
must be taught that their day was over. They 
alone defied his authority and regulations. In spite 
of his express orders they continued to exercise 
their superstitious functions, alienating the people 
from the great God of Liberty. 

‘Why do the Gentiles rave?” quoted the young 
staff officer, the deadly enemy of Obregon, who hap- 
pened to be present when the First Chief spluttered 


131 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


his words of wrath and reviling. *‘Why do you ob- 
ject to the priest, when you have a well-known cler- 
ical on your own staff? I refer to Lieutenant Obre- 
gon.” 

The First Chief was silent for a moment, as he 
glared at the officer. ‘It is a lie,” he exclaimed. 
“No man on my staff is a clerical.” 

“Well,” was the rejoinder of the officer, shrug- 
ging his shoulders, “that's what people say — the 
other officers and even the soldiers. I heard you 
reprimand him yourself for his zeal in that direc- 
tion.” 

The Chief brought his fist down on the table 
with a crash, and chewed his moustache savagely. 
After a moment he reiterated : “It is a lie !” 

“There is an easy way to test his loyalty to 
you,” said the young officer deprecatingly. “I for 
one should be glad to see his fidelity proved, and his 
calumniators silenced. Send him to arrest the 
priest.” 

For answer the First Chief struck a bell. To 
the orderly who appeared he commanded: “Send 
Lieutenant Obregon here.” 

The Lieutenant soon entered and saluted. Anger 
still possessed the General and he spoke sharply. 

“You are accused of being a clerical. No man 
can be a clerical, and be loyal to me and the cause 
I represent. I give you a chance to prove to the 
world that you are loyal. Proceed at once with a 
few men to Chuaha and arrest the traitor priest 


132 




“Padre, I am sorry to announce to you that you are 

under arrest.” 



THE DOUBLE TRAITOR. 


there. He will be tried, and shot at daybreak. See 
all this evidence concerning him,’^ and he pointed to 
the report. ‘‘Go at once, do you hear?” 

The Lieutenant had paled slightly, and stood 
hesitating while his enemy leered at him from be- 
hind the GeneraFs back. He saluted again, and left 
the presence of the First Chief without a word. 

God only knows. what was in Obregon^s mind 
as he rode to arrest the priest for the crime of fear- 
lessly doing God's work. It was a long ride, and 
though he had received the command of the First 
Chief early in the day, he did not arrive at the vil- 
lage until late in the afternoon. He rode up to the 
priest's house, and bidding his escort to await out- 
side, he entered. When the priest presented him- 
self in his cassock, Obregon staggered back as if 
someone had struck him. 

“My God !'' he exclaimed. “It is fate.” 

It was none other than Don Luis Moreno, his 
old time friend and intimate at the South American 
College. Don Luis recognized Obregon at once and 
went forward to embrace him, thinking that he had 
come on a friendly call; but Obregon sternly held 
up his hand. 

“Padre,” he said, “I am sorry to announce to 
you that you are under arrest.” 

The Padre paled. He knew what little mercy 
he could expect at the hand of Carranza or any of 
his emissaries. 

“Obregon,” he answered, “my old friend, I am 


133 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


sorry to see that you have exchanged the service of 
God for that of the Devil. I am at your mercy.” 

Obregon stood silent. His face was deadly pale. 
Finally he spoke. 

‘Tadre, I have come to tell you that if you are 
not across the border by midnight, you will be shot. 
You must leave at once, and remain in exile. Your 
life is forfeit if you hesitate.” 

The Padre breathed a deep sigh of relief. Life 
was given to him. He had not expected any mercy 
at the hand of the First Chief. Obregon must have 
interceded for him to gain so unusual a privilege 
as exile. 

Never for a moment did he dream of what was 
going on in the mind of Obregon. Never for a mo- 
ment did he dream that Obregon, at the risk of his 
own life, was deliberately disobeying the instruc- 
tions that were given him. 

‘'Lieutenant, I thank you from the bottom of 
my heart. But before we separate, will you not 
promise me that you will retire from the service of 
the First Chief, where your Faith is constantly im- 
periled.” 

‘T promise,” said the Lieutenant sombrely. 
“And now. Padre, will you hear my confession?” 

“Willingly,” cried the Padre eagerly. “Thank 
God for His mercies. Obregon, I knew you would 
remain a faithful Catholic.” 

Obregon knelt at the Padre's feet, and the 
priestly hand of his friend was soon raised in absolu- 


134 


THE DOUBLE TRAITOR. 


tion. After confession they took leave of each other. 

^Tromise me, Padre, that you will leave imme- 
diately and remain in exile until better days.” 

promise, Lieutenant. And you, in turn, prom- 
ise to quit the service in which you are now engaged 
at your first opportunity? 

"‘I promise. Padre,” answered the Lieutenant 
solemnly. 

When Obregon rejoined his troops, the Ser- 
geant stepped forward. 

‘Tardon, Lieutenant, but the priest? Are we 
not to arrest him?” 

‘Who is commanding here?” demanded the 
Lieutenant. 

The Sergeant answered, ‘T beg your pardon, 
Senor Lieutenant, but you are.” 

“Then, attend to your own business,” answered 
the Lieutenant sharply. 

The Sergeant saluted and fell back with the 
men, while the Lieutenant rode on alone in the gath- 
ering dusk, his little troop following closely behind 
him. Once or twice the thought came to him to 
escape, but a glance behind showed that the Ser- 
geant, carbine ready for action, was watching him 
intently. 

Obregon understood then that his subordinate 
had received instructions to watch him sharply and 
would shoot the moment he attempted to escape. 
Then they would return and capture the priest. No, 
he must gain as much time as possible, to ensure 


135 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


Don Luis’ escape. The only way to accomplish this 
was to return to the First Chief and stand the 
consequences of his act. He did not conjecture much 
as to what they would be. Human life was cheap in 
Mexico, and he knew his open disregard of the or- 
ders of the Chief would cost him his life. 

Next day was January the eighteenth, the Feast 
of the Chair of St. Peter, and Lieutenant Obregon, 
already regarded by his friends as a renegade to the 
Faith because of his services on the staff of Car- 
ranza, was proclaimed a traitor to Carranza by court 
martial, publicly degraded, and shot. 

Thus, as a double traitor, died Lieutenant Peter 
Obregon, one of God’s noblemen. Faithful as far as 
he could see his way to God and country and friends ; 
faithful unto death. Like the great St. Peter, if at 
any time through human frailty he denied his Lord, 
he wiped out the stain of his denial by his blood. 



136 


THE BURYING OF UNCLE. 


The world is small, — at least that's what they 
say. I can't say that I've found it so on any of my 
periodic trips to New York. I hate the place, it's so 
lonely. You may not believe me, but that's been my 
experience. The loneliness of a great city appals me. 
There is a certain friendliness in small places, where 
everybody knows everybody else, but in New York, 
with its four millions, there is no community spirit. 
All are citizens, not of a city, but of the world. 

I had been detained there nearly a week on 
business, and a lonely week I found it, as usual. I 
often walked the crowded streets, scanning the faces 
of the passersby, in the hope of seeing someone to 
whom I could talk. For the sake of speaking to a 
human being, I even ventured to ask a New York 
policeman, grand and terrible creature, the way to 
the Bronx. To hear a human voice I rode for hours 
on the Rubberneck, and heard the near-human voice 
of the man who knows it all, wafted to me through 
the megaphone. 

So, though I never cared for Reggy Roberts, 
when I spied him seated alone at a table in the 
Grand Central Restaurant, my heart warmed to- 


137 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


wards him. At home I would have avoided him, 
but, thirsting as I was for companionship in the 
desert of New York, I welcomed him as my long- 
sought oasis. I hated his name, though I thought it 
appropriate, for Reggy was of that sickly blonde 
type that parts its hair in the middle, wears glasses 
with a shoestring attachment, and prefers Browning 
to George Ade. 

I slapped him on the back, simply because I 
knew he would not like it, as he was a stickler for 
propriety, and bawled out: 

‘‘How are you, Reggy ! Delighted to see you in 
New York. The world is small after all, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, indeed,” says Reggy. “Isn’t it Shakes- 
peare that says ‘the world’s my oyster ?’ ” 

“I don’t remember that,” I responded, “I always 
read an expurgated edition. What in the world 
brought you so far from your native heath?” 

“The train,” he answered promptly. I hated 
him worse than ever then. His wit was like his 
complexion, sickly. 

“But,” he added quickly, “I shouldn’t joke on a 
solemn occasion, for I’m here to attend the funeral 
of my uncle.” 

I noticed, then, for the first time that he was 
dressed in black. 

“Oh,” said I, hastily erasing the conventional 
smile from my countenance and substituting the 
pained expression proper to the death of an uncle. 


138 


THE BURYING OF UNCLE. 


“Very sorry to hear it. May I offer you my condo- 
lence or sympathy or whatever is proper on such a 
loss?'' 

“I don't mind,” said Reggy, “though I hate to 
accept anything on false pretenses. To tell you the 
truth, I never cared much for him anyway. We 
never got along, especially since I became a Cawth- 
olic. He was very nasty about that.” 

“Oh,” I observed understandingly. Reggy 
talked so much, once he got going, that that was 
about all I could find to say before he started again. 

“You know Tm a Cawtholic — ^not Roman of course 
— ^and uncle always objected. He didn't have much 
religion, but certainly hated anything that looked 
like Rome. Vestments, incense, lights, and all those 
things that I just dote on, were an abomination to 
him. We were always arguing about it. I suppose 
that's why he cut me off, and left all his money to a 
home for stray cats and dogs. Of course, he knew I 
did not need the filthy lucre. Even to the end he 
insisted I was wrong, and his will was his closing 
argument.” 

I started again to make some observation or 
other, but Reggy rattled right on. 

“Poor Uncle! He was the unluckiest sort of 
fellow. He was unlucky in his marriage; his chil- 
dren all died ; his house burned up ; he was in a train 
wreck in Canada; and I don't know what else hap- 
pened to him. He was always talking about his luck. 
I don't want anything belonging to him, because he 


139 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


disliked me so much, that I think he would rather 
wish me his hard luck than anything else/' 

'‘Rather hard on the stray cats and dogs that 
have got to live on this heritage of woe," I observed. 

"Awful," responded Reggy. "The cats have 
some hope with their nine lives, — but the poor dogs ! 
And say, Fve had the hardest luck myself since I 
started on this funeral. It's positively uncanny. I 
left home late this morning for the train, and the 
machine broke down. Missed it, of course, and had 
to wait three hours. Dropped my watch and broke 
it, and I don't know what else happened. As a re- 
sult, here I am in New York at eight o'clock in the 
evening, though I intended the funeral should have 
taken place this afternoon." 

"Oh, isn't he buried yet?" I asked in surprise. 

"No," answered Reggy, tapping his suitcase 
lightly with his toe. "Uncle is right here." 

"What!" I gasped, nearly bounding out of my 

seat. 

"Yes," said Reggy calmly. "He had himself 
cremated. He knew, of course, that, as a Cawtholic, 
I abominate that sort of thing. It doesn't seem 
Christian, you know. Then he had himself sent par- 
cel post to me. It was all arranged in the will. He 
asked as a last favor that I should take his ashes and 
drop them from the Brooklyn Bridge into the water 
of the river below. Nice kind of burial for a Christ- 
ian, that," he murmured in disgust. 

"Awful," I said. "But it occurs to me that you 


140 


answered Reggy, tapping his suitcase lightly with 
his toe. '‘Uncle is right here.” 



THE BURYING OF UNCLE, 


are not paying much respect to the venerated re- 
mains of your uncle.” 

*‘As much as he showed for his own body,” re- 
torted Reggy. am going to try to get one of our 
Fathers to read the Commitment Service, but I ex- 
pect he will refuse, and I don't blame him. At any 
rate, I brought along the Prayer Book myself, and 
I shall read the Burial at Sea if the Father declines 
to officiate.” 

‘‘Well,” I said, “I—” 

“Here's my order at last,” broke in Reggy. 
“Just as I suspected. The steak done to a frizzle, 
and the onions all burned. Really, it seems as 
though uncle's hard luck is going to attach itself to 
me till I get him buried. Won't you come to the 
funeral ?” 

“Come?” said I, thinking of the oasis again. 
“You couldn't shake me in New York if you tried.” 

I partook of the funeral-baked meats with 
Reggy, while Unlucky Uncle reposed peacefully with- 
in the suit case. Supper over, we hailed a taxi and 
drove to the Rectory of one of Reggy's High Church 
friends. I remained in the taxi till Reggy came 
forth. 

“Just as I thought,” said Reggy testily. “Would 
have nothing to do with it, and said I was as crazy 
as Uncle to carry out such an absurd wish.” 

“Drive us to Brooklyn Bridge, chauffeur, and be 
quick about it,” he ordered. 


141 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


The driver hesitated, as if he had not under- 
stood. 

‘"Brooklyn Bridge V* repeated Reggy impa- 
tiently, as the mystified taxi-man stared blankly at 
him. 

It was a queer place to go at that time of night. 
The driver gave him a suspicious look, and started 
the machine. We stopped soon after, and the taxi- 
man hailed an officer. 

‘"Say, Officer,” he said, ""Tve got a pretty queer 
fare. Wants to go to Brooklyn Bridge. He's got a 
suit case, and I don't know whether he's got some 
one murdered inside it, or whether he wants to jump 
over the rail himself, but there's something funny 
about him.” 

The officer opened the door. 

""I have me doubts about you people,” he 
growled, ""and I think it's me duty to see what you 
have in the suit case, and what you want on Brook- 
lyn Bridge at this hour of night.” 

""The dead body of my uncle is in the suit 
case,” said Reggy calmly. 

""Murdered !” exclaimed the officer. ‘"I thought 
as much.” 

""No,” murmured Reggy, ‘"only cremated,” and 
he pulled out the small urn in which Unlucky Uncle 
reposed. Reggy then explained why we went to 
Brooklyn Bridge, but the bill I slipped to the limb 
of the law proved clearer than any explanation could, 
that we were not doubtful characters. 


142 


THE BURYING OF UNCLE, 


all right,” he assured the taxi man, **and 
take good care of the gents. There's one of them a 
little looney. The other's all right.” 

“That's the second time I've been called crazy 
tonight on account of Uncle,” protested Reggy. “I'll 
be glad when he's buried, and off my hands. I'm 
really beginning to believe I won't have a bit of luck 
till he lies at the bottom of the river.” 

However, no more ill luck or policemen crossed 
our path, and like the poet, we stood on the Bridge 
at Midnight. By the aid of a pocket flashlight, Reggy 
read the Burial at Sea, and then, breaking the seal 
of the urn, scattered the ashes within to the four 
winds , of Heaven. He paused a moment thought- 
fully, and then dropped the urn, the last remem- 
brance of Unlucky Uncle, into the dark abyss below. 

“May he rest in peace,” whispered Reggy sol- 
emnly. 

“Amen,” I responded. 

When at the end of the week I returned home, 
one of the first friends I saw was Reggy. He pounced 
on me, and insisted that I come and dine with him. 
I Anally went along, as he told me he had some very 
important news. 

When we had finished dinner, and were sitting 
over the coffee and cigars, Reggy began. 

“You know I often told you how unlucky my 
uncle was. Well, he was unlucky even in his fu- 
neral. When I came back from New Yorl^ there was 


143 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


a special delivery from the Cremation people telling 
me that they had sent me the wrong urn by mis- 
take, and asking me to return it. I answered by 
return post, and told them how I had disposed of 
it; and asked them for Uncle's remains. They re- 
plied that, on investigation, everything was all right. 

‘T was suspicious when I read their answer, and 
finally got the true story by bribing and solemnly 
promising that I would take no action whatever in 
the matter. You see, another victim was cremated 
at the same time with Uncle. They have a sort of 
double-furnace effect. The two urns were waiting, 
duly labelled. The ashes were brushed into them, 
and the urns were brought to the Superintendent. 

‘‘Uncle's partner in the furnace lost his label 
somehow, and the careless attendant, glancing at the 
records, wrote Uncle's name on the partner's urn, 
and sent it to me. When he discovered Uncle still 
reposing in the Columbarium (lovely word, that, — 
makes me think of Roman Catacombs) he tried to 
rectify his blunder; but I had already disposed of 
the contents of the urn, as you know. The attend- 
ant then simply changed Uncle's name, and his re- 
mains are now in the possession of a poor widow in 
Chicago who sent for her husband. I suppose she 
has him enthroned on a parlor mantle, and he hated 
Chicago, — ^but then, as I've told you, he was always 
unlucky." 

“What are you going to do about it?" I asked. 

“Nothing," he said. “What can I do? I had to 


144 


THE BURYING OF UNCLE, 


promise that nothing would be done before I got the 
story. It's Uncle's fault anyway. I often told him 
what a fool thing cremation was." 



14b 


NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 


Tired and weary, with uniforms mud-stained 
and blood-stained, a group of officers had gathered 
together in one of the bomb-proof shelters to smoke 
and talk for a social hour, after a day of horrors. 
Their talk was of the Great War, its tragedy, its 
comedy; its victims, its heroes; its changes in na- 
tional boundary and national character. Finally, the 
conversation shifted to a topic very commonly 
avoided by the officials of the Republic of France 
^ — Religion. 

The Major was talking. 

‘‘After this war the clericals are going to be 
pretty strong. Did you notice the soldiers at Mass 
yesterday? Six months ago half of them wouldn't 
go. Now the priests are so beset that they cannot 
hear all the confessions, and hundreds are going to 
Communion. I noticed a few of the officers among 
those receiving; a few months ago it might have 
cost them their commissions." 

“Yes, I noticed it, too," commented the gray- 
haired Colonel. “It's remarkable, and," a little de- 
fiantly, “I’m glad of the change. We Frenchmen 
ought to be good Catholics. Noblesse oblige. It is 
the faith of our race. If we are loyal to our coun- 
try, and no one will say we are not, why shouldn't 


146 


NOBLESSE OBLIGE, 


we be faithful to our religion? Eh, Lieutenant?'' 
and he playfully clapped the young officer on the 
back, for the Lieutenant had been one of the officers 
at Communion the day before, and was remarked 
especially as he had just been decorated with the 
cross, and was a general favorite with the officers 
and men. 

The Lieutenant had been listening with flushed 
face and burning eyes to some sarcastic asides of the 
radical Doctor. Then he took up the Colonel's 
remark. 

‘Tf we're not faithful to our religion," he began, 
“why should we be faithful to our country? Deny 
the existence of God, — and patriotism and all the vir- 
tues cease to be God-given duties. They are only the 
invention of man, of the ruling class — of the capital- 
ist as our socialist friends like to tell us — mere 
conventions." 

“How do you make that out, my dear Lieuten- 
ant ?" interrupted the Doctor with a half sneer. 

“What other compelling motive is there for 
such service as this?" appealed the Lieutenant to 
the listening group. “Are we giving our lives for 
conventionalities ? Will any honors or pay compen- 
sate us for what we have been through ? Is this," 
and he touched lightly the cross that he wore, “a 
sufficient reward?" 

“Why," cried the Doctor, laughing at his earn- 
estness, “it would be for some of us." 

“It's a bauble — nothing more — my dear Doctor, 


147 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


I assure you. Besides, the patriot doesn’t serve for 
what he can get out of his country. He serves even 
if he knows that his service will go unrecognized 
by the State. He knows that the State could not 
reward him for his sacrifices here, for his very life’s 
blood. If there is no God, why are you, why am I, 
in the trenches, suffering privations and risking life 
itself?” 

‘We are defending our native soil,” expostu- 
lated the Doctor. 

The Lieutenant stooped and gathered a handful 
of the soil at his feet. “Don’t talk to me about de- 
fending the soil !” he passionately exclaimed. 
“Would I die for this, if this were really the end of 
all things?” and he tossed it contemptuously from 
him. 

“We have to support the government,” inter- 
rupted the Colonel. 

“Now, Colonel, you know that the politicians 
who have dominated the government of France for 
years are not worth the sacrifice of any decent 
man’s life, and we have lost men by the tens of 
thousands.” 

The Doctor came quickly to the Colonel’s as- 
sistance. 

“We are serving the nation, humanity, civiliza- 
tion itself, against those barbarians,” and a sweep 
of his hand indicated the distant German lines. 

“Words, words, mere words,” cried the Lieute- 
nant. “We ask for bread and he gives us a stone. 


148 


NOBLESSE OBLIGE, 


The nation, humanity, civilization — fine words to 
make me give my vote, but not strong enough to 
make me give my life. What's the nation to me ? Or 
what am I to the the nation? What does the ordi- 
nary soldier out there know or care about the na- 
tion or humanity ! What is it ? Where is it ? 

‘*Oh, no, my dear Doctor, we are here for a 
higher reason than your material philosophy can 
give us. We are here because it is our God-given 
duty, and if God doesn't exist, why. Doctor, then 
you and I and all the rest of us are fools to die for 
an abstraction like civilization or humanity." 

‘'We are fighting for the right," asserted the 
Colonel, as the Doctor was silent. 

“Then we're fighting for God," answered the 
Lieutenant readily, “for if God doesn't exist, there 
isn't any right or any wrong — they are mere con- 
ventional terms. If God doesn't exist, why should 
we trouble ourselves about what the world calls 
wrong, either in public or private life ? Why bother 
with justice and right? If you have no absolute 
standard, these things are mere conventions. 

“Why talk about nations if we are mere herds 
of animals ? Why obey the government if they have 
no authority but what we give them ? Why respect 
property, or human life itself, if they have no higher 
sanction than the will of man ?" 

“But there is the social contract," objected the 
Doctor. 

“Why should I be bound by it? Why should I 


149 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


submit my will to the mere will of man or of any 
body of men, if they have no higher authority, — 
if they have no authority from God ? I never made 
any social pact. I never made any agreement to 
hand over my liberty to the State.” 

‘‘Why!” exclaimed the Doctor, “you're a real 
anarchist. Lieutenant.” 

“No,” answered the Lieutenant, “but if I were 
not a believer in God, I would be. The anarchists 
are more logical than you. Doctor. You talk like an 
atheist and live like a Christian. You spend your 
days and nights in unceasing labor, binding up 
wounds, relieving distress and suffering. Come, now, 
honestly confess, you do it because it makes you 
happier. You're happy because you're doing your 
duty. Your duty to what ? To whom ? To Almighty 
God. I believe you're a Christian at heart, but 
you've gotten into the loose ways of thinking and 
talking of that little Parisian clique of anti-clericals 
with whom you associate.” 

The officers laughed and applauded. The Doc- 
tor was always fond of an argument, but he had met 
his match. 

“Not at all,” cried the Doctor hotly. “Don't talk 
to me about God with all this suffering about me. Is 
this the work of a kind and beneficent Ruler of the 
universe? Could God be in His Heaven, and look 
down on and permit all this?” 

The listening group applauded as the Doctor 
scored, but the Lieutenant was not vanquished. 


150 


NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 


‘‘Yes, God is in His Heaven and He is looking 
down on this crucifixion of France, and He suffers it, 
just as He suffered the crucifixion of His only-begot- 
ten Son, that good may come out of it, and already 
France is turning toward her Creator and her God. 
It is by fire and brimstone He conquers, but you 
cannot say He has not tried the way of love.” 

“So this war then, is the work of God!” cried 
the Doctor. 

“No, I do not say that. It is the work of man, 
rather. For the universe obeys the laws of God, but 
man does not. Man is the one disturbing element 
in all God’s creation. You forget, my dear Doctor, 
that the harmony and order of the world was 
smashed by man at the very beginning of his his- 
tory, and by a free and deliberate act. The stars 
swing in their course in the heavens; the seasons 
succeed each other ; the seed matures into plant and 
flower and fruit, and back again to seed, almost au- 
tomatically perpetuating itself. All nature obeys 
the fixed laws of creation, and man alone is free. 
Therefore man alone disturbs the order of creation 
and these calamities, sickness, suffering, war, death 
itself, are the work of man — the result of original 
sin.” 

“Original sin,” said the Doctor sarcastically. 
“Surely it’s refreshing to find an officer in the army 
who believes in original sin.” 

The Lieutenant flushed under the sarcasm, but 
continued. 


151 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


“Even in ourselves we see the ruin wrought. 
Once there was harmony in the forces of the body — 
all dominated by reason. But this is lost, and the 
warfare within is as serious at times as the warfare 
without. It is universal, this warfare, is it not? 
We are the heirs of the sins of the ages. It is not 
God's fault — and as for proof of the existence of 
original sin in the world, all the proof I ever wanted 
was the front page of a newspaper.” 

“Mere superstition,” answered the Doctor loft- 
ily. “We are still in the process of evolution. I be- 
lieve in the progress of the human race. We get 
further and further away from the barbarism of for- 
mer ages as popular education progresses and people 
become more enlightened.” 

He was interrupted at this point in his harangue 
by a screeching shell which passed over their heads, 
and he involuntarily ducked. The others, more ac- 
customed, did not move, but with one accord burst 
into laughter at the Doctor. The Colonel particularly 
enjoyed it, and laughed until the tears rolled down 
his cheeks. 

“There's a product of your civilization for you,” 
cried the Lieutenant, laughing with the others. “Ci- 
vilization made that shell in America or Germany. 
See here. Doctor, you scientists have been giving us 
scientific buncombe for over a century, holding up 
all sorts of quack nostrums for popular diseases. 
Your greatest cure-all has been popular education. 
It's a fizzle. Over yonder is a people you hate today. 


152 


NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 


Yesterday, you scientists swore by them. You went 
to their universities to study. You imported their 
professors to teach. You adopted their philosophy, 
and all the rationalism you learned was made in Ger- 
many. England and America did the same. And 
we admired their popular education, their advanced 
modern civilization, and now we hate them because 
modern civilization has made them more expert kill- 
ers of men than we are. That shell you dodged a 
moment ago exploded completely your theories about 
progress taking us away from barbarisms like war. 
Mere civilization will never prevent war. 

‘‘Christianity could, though. If we were all 
really Christians, we’d put our case in the hands of 
the Vicar of Christ, shake hands with the enemy, 
and go home feeling sure that justice would be 
meted out. Civilization’s only court of appeal is the 
knife and the gun because modern civilization is 
selfish, and thoroughly selfish people are always 
quarrelsome. If two utterly selfish men insist on 
having the same land, they will fight for it to the 
death, whereas true Christians would settle the diffi- 
culty after the manner of the Master. Paris, Lon- 
don, Petrograd and Brussels, are not Christian — 
there’s the difficulty.” 

“Don’t attack civilization. Lieutenant,” inter- 
rupted the Doctor. “Civilization gives us commerce, 
science, education. It labors for the good of human- 
ity.” 

“Yes,” retorted the Lieutenant, “and it gives us 


153 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


war. Modern civilization turns away from the Cross 
of Christ, which means unselfishness, self-sacrifice, 
humility, purity, and a number of other inconve- 
nient things which the world does not like, and sets 
up fallen humanity, poisoned by the sin of ages. It 
glorifies the god of humanity, who does not exist, 
instead of the God of Heaven who does. Modern 
civilization is to blame for this war, and yet you try 
to tell us that it is Christianity that is responsible.” 

“Come, come,” said the Colonel, “you surely 
don^t blame modern civilization for this war when 
we know that it is Germany’s fault. Modem civil- 
ization is the enemy of war.” 

“I beg your pardon, Colonel,” interrupted the 
Major deferentially, “but modern civilization has 
fostered the science of war and has always been 
military. Militarism is a product of modem civili- 
zation.” 

“Certainly,” resumed the Lieutenant. “Modem 
godless civilization has been, not the enemy, but the 
ally of war. The Prince of Peace has been driven 
out by modern government and by war. Neither 
recognizes His supremacy, but both cultivate the 
supremacy of man. Christianity means humility, 
self-sacrifice, unselfishness, but modern nations are 
concerned about their honor, integrity and position 
among the powers. 

“This is what they fight for, the glory of fallen 
man. What do they care about the glory of God? 
And God is letting them go their own way. He 


154 


NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 


gave them free will and He will not repent. And 
their way leads inevitably to war. For me, and, 
I hope, for the world, the little tin gods of secular- 
ism, which modern civilization raised when it drove 
out Christ, have fallen forever.” 

think a new and great civilization will arise 
from the ashes of Europe and I believe that human- 
ity, washed in this sea of blood, will rise even su- 
blimer and greater,” interposed the Doctor. 

“Doctor,” remonstrated the Lieutenant impa- 
tiently, “put that popular science . rubbish out of 
your head in the presence of the great realities of 
life. You know yourself that disaster never put an 
end to sin in private life. Look at the thief who 
meets disaster regularly, — ^has it ever cured him? 
No, we need a more radical cure. We need to change 
our thinking, our living, we need to go back to God. 
There was blood enough shed for the world when the 
Blood of Christ was shed. We could dispense with 
these horrors. Europe bathed in this blood will only 
emerge blood-stained and horrible, but when it goes 
back to the saving Blood of Christ, through the 
Sacraments of God's Church, then, and then only, 
will we have true civilization and lasting peace.” 

“Hold on,” interrupted the Major, as the Lieu- 
tenant swept on in his argument, his eyes flashing 
with enthusiasm. “History is against you. The 
Christian nations were always at war. How about 
the Middle Ages when the nations could be called 


155 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


Christian, when the Church was supreme? Chris- 
tianity failed then as it has now.” 

The Lieutenant raised his hand deprecatingly. 

“Pardon me, Major, but there never has been a 
time when the nations were truly Christian, in 
which Christ reigned in the hearts of rulers and 
people. Christianity has not failed, for it has never 
been tried. The history of the Church is a history 
of a struggle for existence against overwhelm- 
ing odds. The powers of earth and darkness have 
ever been in league against it, and its mere existence 
today is a miracle.” 

“So you maintain that it is not Christianity 
which has collapsed?” queried the Doctor. 

“Emphatically!” answered the young Lieute- 
nant. “It is modern civilization which has collapsed, 
with its secularism, its godless government, and god- 
less universities and schools. Humanitarianism, the 
substitution of man for God, has failed, utterly 
failed. WeVe tried to alleviate political and social 
evils, tried everything but Christianity. Here in 
France we have tried popular education, socialism, 
anarchy, monarchy, imperialism and republicanism 
in the short space of one hundred years. We drove 
God out. We extinguished His star in the heavens 
and we have failed to accomplish anything. We are 
disappearing from the face of the earth.” 

“It is hard,” confessed the Doctor, “to defend 
modem civilization in the face of those Huns,” and 


156 


NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 


he pointed to the Germans, ‘Vhom I admit we scien- 
tists looked up to and respected so much ” 

‘‘You’ll find,” interrupted the Lieutenant, ad- 
dressing himself to the group, “that we’ve got to 
come back to Christianity — united Christianity. 
Protestantism is divided Christianity. The only part 
of Christianity, united and disciplined, is the Cath- 
olic Church — the Church of France, in which our 
fathers worshipped.” 

“You talk like a theologian,” was the Doctor’s 
only comment. 

“I hope to be one soon,” said the young Lieute- 
nant with quiet dignity. 

The little group moved in surprise. 

“I applied to the Superior of the Foreign Mis- 
sions for admittance to the Society, and he has ac- 
cepted me. When the war is over, I shall join, if God 
spares me. It’s a bigger and nobler battle to wage 
— the cause of Christ.” 

“I’m sorry,” said the Doctor, for he liked the 
young Lieutenant, “if I have hurt your feelings in 
any way. I used to think as you do once, but — 
well you know, such things are laughed at in the uni- 
versities.” 

The conversation changed abruptly after this 
revelation on the part of the Lieutenant, and soon 
the party broke up. 

The Doctor, however, did not retire imme- 
diately, but went to the hospital and paced up and 
down between the rows of wounded men. 


157 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


He began to think of the Lieutenant in a new 
light. Hitherto he had regarded him as an upstart, 
a successful climber in the military world. He 
thought it was mere chance that this farmer boy 
should have succeeded in the thrilling rescue of the 
Colonel, which brought him the coveted cross. 

The Doctor came from a noble family, but he 
was not a snob. He was a good republican, and, like 
all good republicans, had a great deal of respect for 
the aristocracy, and was secretely very proud of 
his own noble lineage. 

Now as he looked at the wounded, he realized 
that the whole argument had made a deeper impres- 
sion on him than he cared to admit. A few phrases 
like ‘"noblesse oblige,” and “What are we here for ?” 
stuck in his throat. He caught himself saying fre- 
quently, “What am I really here for? Why am I 
thus toiling day and night?” 

He realized keenly the inadequacy of any an- 
swer that he could make. He was not there for 
money — no, nor for fame. He could have made more 
money attending to his enormous practice, and have 
won more fame by sticking to his laboratory. It 
was not that he had to serve, either, at least in the 
arduous service of the front, for he could easily have 
been assigned to a hospital at Paris. 

No, he was laboring “like a Christian,” he had 
to admit, like a man who believed in God, whereas 
he was a professed agnostic and sometimes in argu- 
ment a militant atheist. 


158 


NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 


Of his militant atheistic argument, however, he 
had the grace to be heartily ashamed. He could 
never attack Christ or His Church without feeling 
like a Judas, a traitor, an ingrate, as any man who 
attacks the Church of which he was once a mem- 
ber must feel. He realized that, mistaken or not, 
the Church had done its duty by him. She had taken 
him as an infant, and had poured the waters of 
Baptism on his head. It was a useless ceremony, he 
persuaded himself — yet the Church had done it in 
good faith and in the hope that She was giving him 
life eternal. And from simple gratitude, many an 
infant in danger of death had he baptized that he 
might do for others what others had done for him. 

Then She had impressed on him Her moral 
teachings, and from the merely natural standpoint 
he thought Her morality excellent and was glad that 
he had learned the useful lessons at Her knee. She 
had confirmed him, — ^another ceremony useless in it- 
self, but beautifully significant of the heroic part a 
man must play in the battle of life. 

Yes, when he attacked the Church, he felt like 
a traitor and an ingrate, for She had done Her very 
best by him. Besides, it was the Church of his 
saintly mother and of the old Cure in his native 
Bretonville, who had been so good to him and had 
taught him his first prayers. He turned against the 
Church because it was fashionable and smart and 
superior, rather than out of conviction, and because 
he felt that this was the part a rising scientist should 


159 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


play in France ; but hidden away in the inner shrine 
of his heart, which he unveiled to no man, were 
many pleasant and beautiful and sacred memories. 

These were now locked in the innermost sanc- 
tuary which was dark and dreary, for the grace of 
God did not penetrate there, but they once filled his 
soul. That was before he went to the University. 
Somehow, there the supernatural died within him. It 
could not live in the merely natural atmosphere 
which he breathed. He was proud and sensitive, 
eager and ambitious. He had talent, and was taken 
up by some of his professors, and he lost his head 
and lost his Faith — where Faith was never men- 
tioned save to be flouted. 

His head was filled with knowledge and his 
pockets with gold, but his breast was empty of the 
grace of God. 

As the Doctor thought of the young Lieutenant 
bearing himself lightly and gaily, with his cross on 
his breast, and pondered over the brilliant career 
open to the young man, he remembered that in the 
archives of the Foreign Missionary Seminary in the 
Rue de Bac there was resting an application to join 
the Society, and he pictured the young hero laboring 
in some wilderness unknown, forgotten — ^he who 
might have been the idol of the gay military society 
of Paris. He used to think of the Lieutenant as an 
upstart, an ambitious climber — ^now he considered 
him a fool, but he respected him as a brave fool. He 
resolved not to think any more about it. 


160 


NOBLESSE OBLIGE, 


Next morning, however, he found he could not 
forget the argument, and he grew angry. When he 
encountered the Colonel entering the hospital, he 
immediately referred to the discussion of the night 
before, and asked the Colonel to give the youngster 
a talking to, to bring him to his senses. This the 
Colonel refused to do, and grew angry when the 
Doctor ventured to suggest that the would-be mis- 
sionary was a fool. 

‘‘How do you know he is?'' he snapped at the 
Doctor. “He will surely be as happy as we have 
been. What have we gotten out of life ? I'm an old 
man, and I tell you. Doctor, it's an empty show. 
^Vanity of vanities — all is vanity.' The man who said 
that might have been religious or not religious, I 
don't know and I don't care, but he knew life. No, 
sir, I will not interfere. I wouldn't if he were my 
own son, and I love him as my own son and more. 
I'm beginning to think since this war began that 
we're wrong and he's right." 

The Doctor was greatly taken aback by this 
outburst. “I wouldn't be surprised," he said sar- 
castically, “to see you at Mass any time, or kneeling 
like a pious woman in the confessional." 

“I wouldn't be surprised myself," answered the 
Colonel coolly. “Like yourself. Doctor, I have 
breathed deeply the atmosphere of infidelity, but 
while I was lying out there in the field, exposed to a 
shower of bullets, and unable to move until the 
young lad freed me and brought me in safely, I did 


161 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


some tall thinking. I expected death any instant, 
and I was terrible scared, I admit it.” 

should think you would be,” answered the 
Doctor more cordially, ‘‘expecting the Germans to 
charge over your body at any minute.” 

“I never even thought of that,” reflected the 
Colonel. 

“Then what were you scared about?” queried 
the Doctor. 

“The Judgment-seat of God,” said the Colonel 
quietly turning away. 

“Whew!” thought the Doctor afterward. “Is 
all France really turning back to the road it left? 
Tm beginning to think so. Are we to set back the 
hands of the clock? What’s the matter with our 
philosophy, and what’s the use of it, if it doesn’t help 
in the great difficulties of life? Is it possible that 
all men turn naturally to religion in great crises?” 

The admission of the Colonel was a shock. Cool 
and brave, wise and prudent, certainly not partial 
to religion, for he had not been a practical Catholic, 
his acknowledged fear of God in distress gave the 
Doctor quite a sharp turn and much food for re- 
flection. 

A few hours later, while the Doctor was on his 
usual rounds tending to the wounded, he was or- 
dered to take charge of a temporary field hospital, 
set up near the front in a rather exposed place, 
where first aid was administered to desperate cases 
before they were brought to the rear. He set out 


162 


NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 


with his usual alacrity, and reached the spot safely 
enough. He found only a few sorely wounded wait- 
ing for him, but that day the battle raged and cases 
soon streamed in. 

It was near the close of day, and he was tired 
and weary and sick of it all, wondering even more 
than ever what it profited a man, when he was sur- 
prised to hear his name whispered from one of 
the cots. 

**Jean,” a voice moaned, and again **Jean.” He 
looked and saw a poor fellow badly wounded by 
shrapnel in a dozen places. A glance showed the 
experienced Doctor that the case was hopeless. The 
poor victim had been lying on the field of battle, 
exposed to wind and heavy night dew for more than 
thirty-six hours before they were able to pick him 
up. His lower limbs were paralyzed, and gangrene 
had already set in. His face was puffed out and 
horrible to behold, his lips were green and swollen, 
and his glassy eyes were sunk in his head. 

Yet his features were certainly familiar in spite 
of their distortion, and the Doctor racked his brains 
to think where he had seen them before. 

‘‘Jean,” the swollen lips formed with difficulty 
and the stricken eyes looked at him appealingly. 

Suddenly the Doctor started. Recognition came 
to him in an instant. “Pierre !” he cried, “Pierre,” 
and he grasped the hand of the stricken man. 

“Yes, Pierre, Pierre of Bretonville. You remem- 


163 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


ber me Jean/^ whispered the dying man, looking up 
with a smile. 

‘^Dear Pierre,” reassured the Doctor, course 
I do. Did we not grow up together?” 

‘‘You taught me my prayers, Jean,” murmured 
the soldier smiling, but the smile was distorted with 
pain. The Doctor felt as if some one had struck 
him in the face. It burned. He turned away in 
shame before the face of his dying friend. A blush 
suffused his countenance and showed even beneath 
the tan. He was silent. 

“A priest, Jean, find me a priest quickly. I am 
dying. I know it and I must have the priest,” 
moaned the stricken man. 

“Be of good courage, Pierre,” said the Doctor, 
turning toward him. “I go to find him.” 

Alas ! there was no priest as yet sent there by 
the negligent authorities, and the Doctor had to 
send an orderly back to headquarters. He had 
tried the field telephone, but it would not work. 
Then he returned to Pierre to wait for the 
end. The deadly poison was slowly working its way 
through the stricken body. The dying man was 
feverish and restless. 

“You remember me, Jean. You taught me my 
prayers. My father, he did not like it, but he died 
a Christian, thank God.” 

Yes, the Doctor remembered. It was before 
he went to the University. He had been a good 
Catholic in those days under the influence of his 


164 


NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 


mother and the saintly old Cure, and had taught 
the neglected farmer boy his first prayers, for the 
poor boy's mother was dead and his father was a 
rabid hater of the Church. And all these years, 
little Pierre had been faithful to the prayers, and 
he — alas ! had forgotten them. 

“Jean, Jean, I am dying. Why does not the 
priest come ? Say the prayers, Jean, the prayers for 
the dying.” 

The Doctor knelt by the bedside while the 
nurses looked on in amazement as they passed to and 
fro. He tried to remember the prayers, and they 
came back to him — ^for what is learned in childhood 
is really never forgotten. And so his unaccustomed 
lips formed again the sweet words of the Hail Mary, 
the Our Father and the Salve Regina. 

Pierre, his eyes closed, lay back on the pillow, 
his lips following the saving words: “Jesus, mercy 
— Jesus, mercy.” 

The priest ! Would he never come ? 

The Doctor marvelled at himself as he grew 
conscious of his own great anxiety. Not even Pierre 
who was dying was so anxious for the presence of 
the priest as he had become. It suddenly seemed 
to him the most important thing in the world. Oh 
God ! Would his friend die without the priest — un- 
absolved, unanointed — and the priest so near ? 

“The act of contrition, Pierre,” he said aloud, for 
Pierre was already half unconscious. 

Never before had the Doctor felt his own help- 


165 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


lessness so keenly. Never had science seemed so 
useless. His splendid instruments were like so much 
junk — they would not bar the door to terrible death 
which even then stood on the threshold. He could 
do nothing, absolutely nothing, for his dying friend. 

Only a priest could be of service here. Only a 
priest could prepare this soul, which hovered over 
the brink of eternity, and yet hesitated before flight, 
for it needed all its strength to essay that terrible 
passage, and it was wounded, sorely wounded, per- 
haps like the poor body, unto death. He could do 
nothing for the body, but the priest could heal the 
soul, strengthen it by anointing, and send it strong 
and well on its last long journey to the great Judg- 
ment seat of God. 

Poor Pierre turned impatiently, and a twinge of 
pain racked his body. 

‘The Hail Mary again — the priest! Why does 
he not come, Jean?” he cried in piteous accents. 

The Doctor began the Hail Mary, but stopped 
in alarm as he saw that Pierre was rapidly becom- 
ing unconscious. He knew that if the soldier went 
to sleep it would be the sleep of death. He would 
never awaken. He must not die without the priest. 

Seating himself on the side of the cot, the Doc- 
tor seized Pierre by the shoulders and shook him 
almost roughly. 

“Pierre,” he called. 

Up and down the body of Pierre the racked 
nerves sent their message of pain, long, keen, thril- 


166 


NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 


ling agonies — and with a cry, Pierre became con- 
scious again. He was half delirious now. The Doctor 
stood over him and said : 

‘‘Look at me Pierre, look at me. Look into my 
eyes.'' 

The dying eyes of Pierre stared at him, and he 
held them hypnotically, staring back unblinkingly. 

“You must remain conscious until the priest 
comes," he almost shouted. “You must fight death 
till the priest comes. Fight, Pierre, fight! and keep 
looking into my eyes." 

Thus the Doctor, for nearly an hour, by the 
sheer force of his will held the wandering attention 
of Pierre and kept him suffering — but alive and con- 
scious, barring the Angel of Death from that bed- 
side until the Priest came. 

Then the Doctor almost collapsed, but he had 
won. Pierre was still alive and conscious. 

The Priest heard his confession and anointed 
him, and in a few minutes the soul which had been 
striving to quit the pain-racked body for more than 
an hour, took its flight. 

The Priest seemed to understand all that the 
Doctor had done, for as he turned to leave the little 
hospital, he said : 

“God bless you. Doctor, for your heroic 
charity." 

“Amen," responded the Doctor. 

That night when the officers, tired and weary, 
met again in the dugout, the Lieutenant found an 
able ally in the converted Doctor. 

167 


RAVELLI. 


It was a great surprise to me to meet Carlo 
Rinaldi at the Ravelli ruin. I knew he had been 
sick, and was glad to see him up and about again. 
He, too, was pleased to meet a fellow-seminarian from 
Rome, and insisted that I should return with him in 
his machine to his summer home in the neighboring 
hills and tell him all the news about classes, profes- 
sors and students. At first I demurred, but when I 
saw how ill he took it, I wavered. 

‘‘Do come,” he pleaded. “You will please my 
father so much, and I'm sure he will interest you. 
He knows the whole history of this ruin, and can 
tell you many stories of the brigands who used to 
infest this region when he was a boy. In fact,” he 
went on laughing, “we have a real live brigand at 
home, old Beppo — reformed, of course.” 

This struck my weak spot. Stories of brigands 
and ruined castles — ^who would't go to hear them — 
and so I quickly capitulated. 

Descending the low hill on which Castle Ravelli 
had once stood, we clambered into the waiting mach- 
ine and were soon speeding across the campagna, 
bound for the distant hills over a splendid old Ro- 
man road. We had to climb steadily the winding 


168 


RAVELLI. 


course through the hills to reach the uplands, but 
there the road was fairly level, and after about two 
hours we arrived at the villa of San Benedetto. 

As the chauffeur sounded the horn, the porter 
swung open the heavy gate, and greeted us with a 
flash of a smile which showed his white teeth, while 
his dark eyes brightened at the sight of Carlo. He 
accompanied us across the causeway which led from 
the outer-gate to the house, for the gate was too 
narrow to admit the automobile. 

We had gone only a few steps when, hurrying 
from the house, came an old man, beetle-browed, 
Ian tern- jawed, wrinkled with age and perhaps wick- 
edness, toothless, eyes set closely together, and one 
shoulder noticeably higher than the other. As he 
shambled toward us to welcome his young master, 
I thought him one of the most villainous-looking 
old wretches I had ever seen. 

‘‘Is this your brigand V* I whispered to Carlo, as 
the man approached like a great spider, ready to 
pounce upon our inoffensive baggage and bear it 
away as his prey. 

“Yes,’" answered Carlo with a smile. “How did 
you guess ? But hush ! He does not like to hear of 
brigands.” 

The old fellow by this time had come up to his 
master, and, taking his hand, kissed it respectfully. 

“Buon giorno, Beppo,” said Carlo. 

“Buon giorno,” he responded, and over his hang- 
dog face there flashed a look of devotion, and his 


169 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


eyes lit up with pleasure. For the moment he 
looked almost respectable. But as he took my bag- 
gage his face changed and he cast a quick covert look 
of suspicion on me. 

queer looking fellow, your Beppo. He looks 
like an unreformed brigand to me,'' I said laughing, 
when he was out of ear-shot. 

‘'Oh, yes," Carlo answered smiling, and then 
tapping his forehead significantly, “not all there. But 
he's been with us for ages. Intensely devoted to 
the family and all that — quite feudal, you know." 

“Was he ever a real brigand ?" I queried. 

“I really don't know," answered Carlo. “I sup- 
pose he was. My grandfather took him in as a fugi- 
tive from justice. He claimed sanctuary here, and 
grandfather had many feudal notions. There was 
a monastery here once, you know, and my family has 
always kept up the monastic traditions." 

“So this was really a monastery ?" 

“Yes, of the Benedictine monks. That's why 
it is called Casa San Benedetto — but it has been the 
summer home of our family for many years." 

“It's a magnificent site !" I exclaimed enthusias- 
tically. “The monks must have appreciated the beau- 
ties of nature to build here." 

Indeed it was a magnificent situation for a mon- 
astery, there on the heights. Far below we could 
see the surrounding valley on all sides, so that the 
building stood on a cliff, like an island in the sea. 
Ages ago some mighty river had dug away the soft 


170 


RAVELLI. 


earth, but the unyielding rock had endured — a last- 
ing foundation for the monastery of San Benedetto. 
The slope down to the valley from the cliff was pre- 
cipitous and bare, but the valley was rich and fertile, 
and the neighboring hills were clothed with the olive 
and the vine. 

The villa itself was a typical monastery build- 
ing built in a quadrangle, with ancient grey walls 
almost jutting out over the precipice. Three 
or four worn steps ascended to the cortile, from 
which the great stairway led to the first floor where 
the family lived. The cortile, while not very large, 
was well kept. Its smooth grass was intersected 
by white-pebbled paths, and the air was filled with 
the pleasant music of water splashing on the moss- 
covered rocks of an old fountain. 

“Caro mio,” cried Carlo enthusiastically as we 
climbed the great stairway, “what good fortune 
that I met you today at the Ravelli ruin."’ 

“The good fortune was all mine. Carlo,” I re- 
sponded warmly. “It is the very first time that I 
have ever been to Ravelli, and perhaps also the last, 
but I always wanted to see it, and so I got permis- 
sion last night from the Rector and left Rome only 
this morning. But really, I think San Benedetto 
much more interesting and am very glad that I 
came here.” 

“It was hard enough to induce you,” he 
grumbled. “I had to promise you a real live brigand, 


171 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


and — oh yes — the story of Ravelli that my father 
is to tell you/' 

shall be glad, indeed, to hear it. I hope it's 
as real as your brigand," I responded laughing. 

‘‘Come, you must meet my father — ^but perhaps 
I'd better show you your rooms first. Can't you 
stay out the holidays with us?" 

“Impossible," I answered. “I'd like to, but I 
must be back in Rome tomorrow night. You re- 
member I told you that the Rector gave me permis- 
sion for two days only." 

“All right," sighed Carlo. “Rules are rules, I 
suppose." 

At the top of the great stone stairway I found 
myself in a typical monastery corridor. It was low- 
studded, and its plaster walls were decorated with 
great frescoes of the saints. 

“Quite monastic, isn't it?" remarked Carlo, as 
he saw me looking around. 

“Quite," I answered. 

“The family has never touched it. We hope the 
monks will come back some day, and we have always 
regarded ourselves as mere custodians," he said smil- 
ing. “So, you are the guest of San Benedetto. When 
it was confiscated in the seventies and put up for 
sale, my grandfather bought it to save it against 
the day when the monks would be permitted to re- 
turn. We had permission from the Holy Father to 
purchase and we have been using it since as a villa, 
but have not changed it, save to introduce a few 


172 


RAVELLI. 


modern comforts. You wouldn't want to sleep on a 
plank, would you ?" he laughed. 

^'Certainly not,” I responded with conviction. 
“My asceticism has no such ambitions. And you have 
kept the chapel and all intact?” I queried. 

“Oh, yes,” he answered. “Our chaplain says 
Mass here every day for the benefactors of the 
monastery as well as for the dead monks, a duty for- 
merly required of the community and which we have 
assumed. You must understand that with the ec- 
clesiastical privileges of the monastery went also the 
obligations, and only when we agreed to that condi- 
tion did we receive the permission to buy. We have 
even the privilege of sanctuary, which,” he added 
whimsically, “accounts for the presence of Beppo 
among us.” 

By this time we had reached the guest room, a 
large chamber with windows commanding a beauti- 
ful view of the surrounding country. I found a com- 
fortable bed, rugs, pictures, — in a word, a 
modernized suite, as beautiful and cosy as the best 
Italian hotel could afford. I sank into the large 
leather chair by the bed with a sense of comfort, 
and regretted that I did not have a month to spend 
in such restful surroundings. 

“Beppo has left your luggage here,” said Carlo, 
opening up a closet wherein reposed my hat, cane 
and modest handbag. 

“Luggage is a big name for the outfit,” I re- 
joined smiling. “But next to the Ravelli story and 


173 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


San Benedetto itself, your brigand Beppo interests 
me. He must have a story. Why did he need the 
privilege of sanctuary here?'’ 

‘‘Come, now, you sober theolog, no romancing,” 
laughed Carlo, shaking a finger at me. “Beppo is a 
thoroughly respectable old henchman of the family, 
and you needn't make a villain out of him. I told 
you he's a bit queer, but he is faithful and loyal to 
us. He came here, a fugitive from justice in the 
time of my grandfather, thinking that the monks 
were still here, and claimed sanctuary, and my 
grandfather gave it to him. His crimes, if ever he 
committed any, are unknown and forgotten. Per- 
haps his guilt lies entirely in his imagination. 

“He is really as free to come and go as you or I, 
but the strange thing is, that, since the day the 
great gate across the causeway swung open to admit 
him, over forty years ago, he has never ventured be- 
yond the spot where you first saw him. He thinks 
the carabinieri are still scouring the woods for him. 
He is afraid of strangers and very suspicious of 
them. You noticed how he acted when he saw you.” 

“Noticed it!” I said. “I thought I saw murder 
in his eyes. He made my blood run cold.” 

“Come,” said Carlo good-naturedly, “if you don't 
like him. I'll see that he keeps out of sight while 
you're here.” 

“Not at all,” I remonstrated. “I was only jok- 
ing. Besides, why should I be afraid of a decrepit 
old man. 


174 


RAVELLI. 


“But surely, you are not in earnest about this 
sanctuary business. That belongs to the Middle Ages. 
You don't mean to say that here in the twentieth 
century you claim the right of sanctuary. The gov- 
ernment wouldn't recognize it." 

“No, of course not," he responded. “The gov- 
ernment doesn't recognize it, but the right of sanct- 
uary belongs to this monastery from the Middle 
Ages, and we have always kept up the traditions. If 
anyone fled here claiming sanctuary, my father 
would protect him." 

“With force of arms ?" I gasped. 

“No, of course not," he answered, smiling at 
my amazement. “We couldn't do that, but we 
wouldn't expel a refugee, and the government would 
have to come in to capture him against our protest. 
But we have never had to exercise the privilege ex- 
cept in the doubtful case of Beppo. There never was 
any search after him or question about him, and I 
think myself that he never committed any crime, but 
is obsessed with the idea that the police are after 
him. However, it is possible that he was an ama- 
teur brigand. Certain it is that in the early seven- 
ties, when the carabinieri were scouring the neigh- 
boring woods which were infested with these ban- 
ditti, Beppo took refuge here." 

At this moment there came a tap on the door, 
and Carlo's father entered. He greeted me with the 
courtly hospitality of an Italian Seigneur, and we 
chatted pleasantly until dinner was announced by the 


175 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


ringing of the monastery bell. For a few minutes I 
thought I was back in the Seminary as the conven- 
tional taps of the Angelus sounded. The father re- 
cited the familiar prayer in Latin, Carlo and I re- 
sponding, and then we went down to dinner. 

After dinner, at which only the three of us were 
present, for Carlo's mother was dead many years, 
we adjourned to the terrace in front of the villa, and 
sat down to enjoy coffee and cigars. There was a 
magnificent view of the brown heathery campagna 
stretching away to the blue waters of the Mediterra- 
nean. In the distance we could see the Alban hills 
and the villages of Albano and Nemi, and Castel Gan- 
dolfo, proudest of them all, with its great Papal 
Castle darkly outlined against the evening sky. 

‘^On a clear day," said Carlo, ‘‘We can see St. 
Peter's from here. It is an inspiration." 

Just then old Beppo appeared with the coffee 
and cigars, and setting the tray on the table, he 
deftly poured the coffee from the silver pot into the 
tiny cups, and then assisted with the lumps of sugar. 
I watched him, fascinated by his serpentine bows 
and scrapes, but knew that there was no hypocrisy in 
it all, for certainly he was passionately attached to 
the family he served. He stood behind his master's 
back and seemed to anticipate every want. He was 
still suspicious of me, and watched me darkly out 
of his narrow eyes. 

The talk, at first general, soon shifted naturally 
enough to the recent assassination of Lieutenant 


176 


RAVELLI. 


Petrosini of the New York police force by a secret 
society in Italy. The papers were then full of it. 
My host expressed surprise that an American detec- 
tive should have been sent into Italy, and I ex- 
plained to him as best I could that many of the Black 
Hand plots executed in New York were hatched in 
secret society headquarters in Italy, and that it was 
to investigate these plots at their source that Petro- 
sini had been sent from New York. 

“It is very sad,” said my host mournfully, “that 
such extraordinary things are necessary. I'm afraid 
we Italians will get a bad name abroad. Was Petro- 
sini sent from America alone, do you think?” 

“You may be sure he was not,” I went on boast- 
fully, “and we'll capture his murderers yet. Our 
police force is the cleverest in the world. They will 
go to any length to bring a murderer to justice. 
Sooner or later they capture him. You can imagine 
how little they regard time, or expense, or labor, 
in a question of bringing a murderer to justice, when 
they will send police across the Atlantic for him.” 

I was thus expatiating boastfully, but elo- 
quently, on the virtues of our American police when 
I looked at Beppo. I stopped abruptly, and changed 
the subject. He was deathly pale, and seemed about 
to faint. His two hands grasped the high back of 
his master's chair, and his black beady eyes were 
turned on me with all the malevolence of a serpent 
about to strike its poisoned fangs into its prey. 

“Come,” I thought, “this amiable Beppo doesn’t 


177 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


like to hear American policemen praised. Perhaps 
it offends his national pride,” and so I changed the 
subject to the Ravelli ruin, which we could plainly 
see crowning a low eminence, gaunt and black, in 
the crimson glow of the setting sun. I began by 
speaking of my accidental meeting with Carlo at the 
ruin, and of the promise he had made that I would 
get the story from his father’s lips. 

“And so. Signore,” I concluded, “I should like 
very much to hear the tale.” 

“Why, certainly,” answered the father. “Here, 
Beppo, get some more coffee.” Beppo being thus dis- 
patched, the father began apologetically: 

“Really, there isn’t any great story. The Castle 
was destroyed by fire one night. I remember it well, 
as I stood in this very place watching it burn. My 
wife was alive then,” he said softly, “and she was 
with me.” 

After a slight pause, he continued, “The care- 
taker was alone in the Castle at the time, and no 
one knows how the fire broke out. Some say that it 
was due to hatred for the name of Ravelli, and indeed 
the family had been exacting landlords, but I think 
it was due to the carelessness of the poor fellow 
who was guarding the estate. If so, he paid dearly 
for his negligence, for he perished in the flames. 

“Next day we drove over to see the ruins. The 
damage was incalculable as many old and valuable 
paintings were lost. No attempt has ever been 


178 


RAVELLI. 


made to re-build, for the last of the Ravelli died 
some time before the fire/’ 

“Isn’t there some story about the last Prince 
Ravelli?” I ventured. “Wasn’t he murdered?” 

Beppo, entering with the coifee and cups on a 
tray, stumbled on the edge of the rug which was 
laid on the terrace, and dropped tray and all to the 
ground. His confusion was so great as he sprawled 
that I was almost tempted to laugh. I controlled my 
risibility, however, and was heartily ashamed of my- 
self, when I saw Carlo spring to the assistance of 
the old man and lift him to his feet, while my host 
never even noticed the awkwardness of the servant, 
but went on with the story as if nothing had hap- 
pened. Carlo simply sent Beppo back to the kitchen 
for more coffee. 

“Yes, the last of the Ravelli was murdered. I 
was a boy at the time, but I can distinctly recall the 
sensation caused by the young Prince’s death. I 
don’t believe the mystery surrounding his death has 
ever been cleared up, or that the motives for the 
murder have ever been ascertained. It seems that 
the unfortunate young man was hunting on his es- 
tate alone, and since he did not return at night, a 
search was made, and his body was found. He had 
been stabbed to the heart. 

“His assassin was a tenant who owed the Prince 
large arrears in rent. Some assert that this was 
the cause of the murder, for the Prince had pressed 
the man hard for the money, and had threat- 


179 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


ened eviction if it were not forthcoming. Others say 
that the tenant had a pretty daughter whom the 
Prince had betrayed, but this I know to be mere 
calumny. I am inclined to think that the Prince and 
the tenant met by accident, an altercation followed, 
words led to blows, and in a fit of anger the death 
blow was struck.” 

‘‘What happened to the assassin?” I asked. 

“His body was found at the foot of a nearby 
cliff, from which the wretch had either stumbled in 
his hasty flight from the scene of the murder, or had 
jumped to stifle the sudden remorse which gnawed 
his soul. 

“Justice was satisfied with the death of the as- 
sassin, and the world soon forgot the murder of the 
last of a noble line. It was a nine days’ subject of 
talk, and then it all ceased. There was some investi- 
gation, but the true story of the murder, or its 
cause, has never been learned. It probably happened 
as I have sketched it for you.” 

Beppo entered with another tray of coffee, and, 
with trembling hands, filled the cups. His deftness 
and dexterity, his serpentine bows were forgotten 
for the rest of that night, at any rate. He had not 
yet recovered from the confusion of his fall. 

The evening was growing somewhat chill, and 
after we had the coffee Carlo suggested that we ad- 
journ to the music room. Acting on the suggestion, 
we went back to the house. Great logs blazed mer- 
rily in the open fire-place and cast a pleasant glow 


180 


RAVELLI. 


around the room, and we spent a delightful hour 
listening to Carlo run over snatches from the favor- 
ite operas. 

I confessed that I was tired after the journey 
of the day, and when nine struck, I rose and begged 
to be excused. Beppo was summoned to light me to 
my room. Bidding Carlo and his father goodnight, 
I followed the crooked figure of Beppo along the dark 
corridors, while the candle he carried threw fantas- 
tic shadows on the walls. 

When we reached the guest room, he threw open 
the door, and entering, lit the candles on the chan- 
delier and table, turned down the bed clothes, and 
then, bowing low, said: 

‘'Good night. Signore. Sleep well!’' 

My heart sank at the sinister note in his voice 
— there seemed to be a covert threat in that “Sleep 
well!" 

“Good night," I answered, shortly. 

He bowed again, and retired, closing the door 
after him. I thought I heard the click of the lock, 
and I was puzzled for a moment. 

I waited until the sound of his retreating foot- 
steps had died out in the stone corridor, and then 
I tried the door. I was dumbfounded to find it locked. 
I was a prisoner within the room. 

My first impulse was to cry out and rouse the 
house. The Rinaldis would be indignant at such 
treatment of a guest — but would they hear me? I 
was alone in this wing of the great rambling build- 


181 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


ing, and if I did arouse them, what explanation could 
I give for my fears ? I hesitated. I did not want to 
appear ridiculous by confessing that I was fright- 
ened at the whims and vagaries of a half-witted old 
man, who turned the key in the door — perhaps by 
accident. 

What reason the old fellow had for locking me 
in, I could not surmise. Perhaps he took me for a 
thief who, during the night would ransack the treas- 
ures of Casa San Benedetto. I almost laughed at 
the picture of my two hundred pounds trying to 
clamber over the outer gate, with the portrait of a 
Benedictine abbot rolled up under my arm, and the 
family silver thrust into a pillow case on my back — 
or, still more funny, making my escape down the 
precipitous sides of the cliff to the valley. It was 
too ridiculous. I laughed aloud, and the great room 
echoed the sound in a positively uncanny way. 

This was no place for laughter, and I grew un- 
easy. What if some other sinister motive prompted 
his action in locking me in? After all, he was half 
crazy as Carlo admitted. Suppose the old brigand 
intended to enter the room himself that night, for — 
God knows, what purpose. If I slept there I would be 
wholly at his mercy. The door was locked, alas! 
from the outside, and he had the key in his pos- 
session. 

The more I reflected, the less I liked the look of 
things, and I sat there a long time considering the 
situation. One of the candles spluttered and died. 


182 


RAVELLI, 


Fortunately there were plenty left burning, all of 
beeswax, and by their clear yellow light, reflected 
by the silver candle sticks, and broken into a thous- 
sand irridescent rays by the glass pendants of the 
great chandelier, I finished my little office of the 
Blessed Virgin. Then I threw open the shutter, and 
the candles paled in the cold white light of the moon 
which streamed in through the window. 

It was a beautiful night and a wonderful scene, 
but I was in no mood for pictures. The locking of that 
door from the outside was on my mind. I could not 
imagine what the whole thing meant. Why was I a 
prisoner? 

I racked my brain for an answer. I was getting 
decidedly restless, and began to walk the floor. I 
had been tired before, but the nervous excitement 
had driven sleep from my eyes. Finally, I lit a cigar, 
and sat down in the great leather chair to con- 
sider what I should do. 

The more I thought of the sinister figure of 
the reformed' brigand the more disturbed I became. 
His presence seemed to fill the room. I could see 
his crooked outline and wicked old face in every 
dark corner. I turned around hastily, as the cur- 
tains stirred in the night breeze, almost expecting 
to see the malevolent eyes staring at me as they had 
glared when I talked of the unfortunate Petrosini. 

Petrosini! There was the solution at last. I 
jumped to my feet as I recalled Beppo’s agitation 
when the Lieutenant’s name was mentioned. What 


183 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


if this brigand were in league with the murderers? 
I thought for a moment that I had discovered the 
mystery of Beppo. He was a member of this secret 
society! He had planned, perhaps executed the 
murder. 

But no! It was absurd. Beppo had not been 
outside the gate in forty years, not since the night 
when he sought refuge from the carabinieri. And 
yet his agitation when the fate of the American 
policeman was discussed ! Was there some link be- 
between Beppo and that murder ! 

What could it be? What possible connection 
between the voluntary prisoner of forty years in 
Casa San Benedetto and the secret society which 
murdered Petrosini in the South of Italy ! If there 
was a link or connection, I could not find it. 

I remembered the irony in his voice as he said, 
‘"Sleep well. Signore, sleep well.’^ 

What interest had Beppo in my sleeping well? 
He had robbed me of the “noctem quietam'’ of which 
Compline speaks, and as I paced restlessly up and 
down, I foresaw that there would be little sleep for 
me that night. Still, I was tired. I must get some 
rest, and I tried to restrain my too vivid imagina- 
tion, and to pooh-pooh it all. What was there to be 
disturbed about? Beppo had locked the door — that 
was all — the foolish action of a half-crazy old man. 

I began to undress, but I could not compose my- 
self. An undefined feeling that something was afoot 
made me pause. I determined that, sleep or no 


184 


RAVELLI, 


sleep, I would not occupy the bed that night. What 
if Beppo did enter ? He had the key. 

The room itself was nearly square, with one 
door leading from the corridor. The bed, a four- 
posted curtained affair of former generations, stood 
to the left of the door, while to the right was an 
old couch concealed in the shadows. I could rest on 
the couch — and so, taking from the closet the heavy 
walking-stick that I always carried on my country 
walks, I extinguished the candles, and threw myself 
down on the uncomfortable couch, taking great care, 
however, to keep my cane within easy reach. 

I suppose it is due to my Irish blood that my 
fingers always tingle when I grasp a good stout 
stick; when I flourish it about my head once or 
twice, I am ready to meet any enemy. 

I lay awake for some time. I could hear eleven, 
and half-past eleven strike, and then twelve and 
half-past twelve. I must have dozed off, for I do not 
remember hearing the clock strike again. 

I do not know how long I slept, but I awoke 
with a start. I had heard a faint click again, the 
click of the lock. Beppo was coming. I grasped the 
cane and lay perfectly still. To tell the truth, I was 
so paralyzed with fright that I could not have risen 
if I wished, but I gradually regained composure as 
nothing happened. After all, he was an old man. I 
was more than his match unless he had a revolver, 
and he would hardly dare to use one, as it would 
arouse the house. I felt that I could handle him with 


185 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


the heavy cane, tightly gripped in my fingers. If 
he entered, he would make for the bed, which would 
give me the advantage as his back would be turned. 
The moonlight streamed in through the window, 
making a bright path of light between the bed and 
the door, across which Beppo would have to pass. 

I felt greatly reassured as I made all these plans, 
coolly enough, and began to thing, even, that I had 
been mistaken in the click, when I heard the latch 
lifted — ^for the old doors had latches instead of the 
modern knobs. I could see the curtains stir in the 
moonlight as the breeze swept in the open window, 
and I knew the door was open. It then creaked a 
trifle as it swung back on its ancient hinges. 

I held my breath and stared into the darkness 
of the door. No one entered, but there was a little 
scuffling noise. I stared and stared, and finally 
made out a dark figure on the floor. It moved slowly. 
The intruder was crawling on his hands and knees. 

Cold beads of perspiration stood out on my fore- 
head, but I kept my wits about me. Inch by inch 
the figure moved, and, as I had calculated, straight 
toward the curtained bed in the darkness. I must 
act and act quickly, for he would soon discover that 
the bed was empty. 

I resolved to wait until he got to the zone of 
light across the floor. I had as yet been unable to 
make out who the intruder was, — ^not that I doubted. 
I was absolutely sure it was Beppo. First I saw a 
hand stretched cautiously into the light as the fig- 


186 


RAVELLI. 


ure crept nearer and nearer to the bed. Then an- 
other hand — but this hand was not empty, for the 
white moonlight played coldly on bright steel. Beppo 
was armed! He was there for murder! 

And Beppo it was, for the next instant his 
wicked face emerged from the darkness. I waited 
no longer, but jumped to my feet and sprang to- 
ward him as he crawled like a reptile on the floor. 
It was in my heart to kill him — ^as I believe I could 
have with one well-directed blow of my stick — but I 
remembered that I was a candidate for Holy Orders, 
and away back in my head was some fear of incur- 
ring canonical irregularity by the shedding of blood. 

He heard me and turned quickly to meet this 
unexpected attack from the rear; the arm with the 
dagger thrust back defensively in the moonlight. I 
brought my stick heavily down upon his extended 
forearm with a side blow, and the dagger dropped 
from his numbed fingers. As he struggled to rise 
to his feet, dazed, I suppose by this sudden attack, 
I sprang on him, and the impact of my heavy body 
knocked him almost senseless on the floor. I ex- 
pected a tussle. Instead, he let out the most un- 
earthly shriek, and the next moment was uncon- 
scious. 

I am afraid that in my hot anger at the treach- 
erous assassin I pummelled him unmercifully, but 
when I saw there was no fight left in him I de- 
sisted. Then I went to the door, locked it, this 
time on the inside, and lit the candles. I was deter- 


187 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER, 


mined to find out why Beppo, reformed brigand and 
respectable servant for over forty years, had sud- 
denly, and apparently causelessly, turned midnight 
assassin. 

I dragged his limp body to the great leather 
chair and threw him into it. I searched his pockets 
to make sure that he was unarmed, and then with 
the dagger in my hand, sat down on the edge of the 
bed to await developments. I was rather proud of 
myself, I must admit. I felt that I was complete 
master of the situation, and intended to settle things 
my own way. I suppose I should have called for 
help, but I was determined now to see this adven- 
ture through alone. 

I must have knocked every bit of breath out 
of his body, for it was some time before he became 
conscious. Finally, with a groan, he came to. He 
started to rise, but I thrust him back roughly into 
the chair, and brandished the knife menacingly be- 
fore his eyes. He was almost too weak to move — 
perfectly helpless — so I went to the wash-stand, and 
filling a glass with water, gave it to him. He gulped 
it down, all the time looking at me with eyes of fear. 

“So, Beppo, you villain and murderer,'' I began, 
“you are caught." 

“Yes," he groaned, “caught — caught at last." 
He moaned as he lifted his arm. “After forty years 
of torture — of Hell, you have me at last, you Amer- 
ican spy. You can arrest me and take me away. 
I am almost glad — to have it over." 


188 


RAVELLI. 


‘‘American spy!'’ I cried amazed. “What do 
you mean, Beppo?” 

“Mean ?" he answered bitterly. “Are you not a 
policeman sent from America with that cursed Pe- 
trosini of whom you talked?" 

“Beppo," I answered, looking him in the eye, 
“you are crazy. I am not a policeman. I am a semi- 
narian — a student for the priesthood — a friend of 
Carlo, from Rome.” 

“My God I” he cried, collapsing, and became un- 
conscious again. 

I revived him once more with water, and he 
tried to kiss my hand, but I repelled him. 

“I would as soon touch a serpent as you, you 
murderer,” I cried with loathing. 

“Pardon, Signore, pardon — ^for the love of God, 
pardon,” he cried in anguish. “I am crazy, crazy, 
not to have known — not to have suspected that you 
were a seminarian, and no policeman. But you do 
not understand. All my miserable life I have been 
in Hell — through fear of the police — and when I 
heard you say that they came from America to cap- 
ture murderers, I was driven to despair and — oh my 
God! — I would have killed you, thinking you a po- 
liceman.” 

“You lie, Beppo,” I answered coldly. “You came 
to rob me.” 

“Before God,” he cried, “I thought you had 
come to arrest me for murder — to drag me away 
from this sanctuary.” 


189 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


‘Tor what murder?'' I demanded quickly. 

“The murder of Prince Ravelli," he answered 
shuddering. “There — you have my secret. I have 
guarded it for forty years. No one here knows it, 
save the old chaplain, and he only in confession." 

Then he fell on his knees. “For the love of God, 
do not betray me. I confess to you as I would to a 
priest." 

I turned away from him in disgust. “You lie 
again, Beppo. The assassin of Prince Ravelli was 
found, a suicide at the foot of the cliff." 

“No, no. Signore," he answered. “He was not 
a suicide, and he never murdered the Prince." 

“What's that you say ?" I asked sharply. 

“It was this way," he whined. “The supposed 
assassin of the Prince, the man they found dead at 
the foot of the cliff, was a tenant, and was on his 
way to Ravelli to pay his back rents — a large sum of 
money. I knew it. I lay in wait in the woods for 
him near the cliff of Ravelli , and stunned him with 
a blow of the stick as he passed my hiding place. I 
did not mean to murder him," he cried grovelling, 
“but only to rob. I was in the act of robbing him 
when the Prince came upon me. He was hunting, 
and had a gun in his hand. He raised it to shoot as I 
sprang at him, but it missed fire. Then drawing his 
hunting knife he came at me, and I stabbed him to 
the heart. 

“I was intensely frightened at the death of 
Prince Ravelli, as I knew the whole country would 


190 


RAVELLL 


be roused. I turned to the tenant. He had revived 
and was struggling to his feet. 

“ ‘You murderer/ he cried, and grappled with 
me. He was a strong man, but was still stunned by 
the blow I had given him. We were getting danger- 
ously near the edge of the cliff when I threw him, 
and he rolled over the edge. I listened, horror- 
stricken, as I heard his body crashing down the 
steep slopes, and then I fled from the accursed place 
— a double murderer. 

“I came here — for sanctuary — and they took 
me in. I have lived here forty years, but life has 
been a Hell to me. I have been tortured — ^for they 
say murder will out. I have been a life prisoner 
here, my soul gnawed with fear and remorse.” 

“And yet you would have put a new murder on 
your blood-stained soul. You wretch !” I said 
sternly. 

“I was wrong,” he pleaded. “I see it. I heard 
you talk about the Ravelli murder. I heard you say 
that American policemen came to Italy to arrest 
murderers, and I thought you came for me. Now 
Signore, you may hand me over to the police. I 
have not long to live. I am ready to go to prison for 
the rest of my days.” 

I looked at the grovelling wretch before me. 
Pity filled my heart. I might have been like him but 
for the grace of God. I spoke quickly, the result of 
a hasty decision, which however, I have never re- 
gretted, though I sometimes think it was imprudent. 


191 


AN UNKNOWN MASTER. 


‘^Beppo,” I said, ‘Vour secret remains with me. 
I will never reveal it to a living soul. The world has 
forgotten your crime. No one looks for you. You 
are perfectly safe here. Promise me, in turn, that 
no such temptation as that which came to you to- 
night will ever again remain in your soul.” 

Beppo, on his knees, swore. 

I do not know whether his oath was of any 
value, and I think the prudent thing would have 
been to denounce the dangerous fellow to the house- 
hold, but I kept my word. I sent Beppo, shaking 
and trembling, down the corridor and locked the door 
— this time from the inside — and lay down to sleep 
after my strange adventure. I did not close an eye 
the remainder of the night. 

Next morning I took leave of the Rinaldis, 
father and son. I was glad, heartily glad, to leave 
Casa San Benedetto and return to Rome. 

'Where's my friend Beppo ?” I asked casually of 
Carlo, as we said good-bye. 

"He's sick today,'' answered Carlo. "He had a 
fall last night and has a fever this morning. I don't 
see why you're so prejudiced against him,'' he said 
laughing. The machine started, and he stood wav- 
ing his hand until we turned a corner in the road, 
and Casa San Benedetto was lost to view. 

I never told this story to a living soul until I 
heard, in a letter received from Don Carlo, now a 
chaplain with the Italian army on the Austrian 
frontier, of the death of my friend Beppo. With 


192 


RAVELLL 


his death I felt free to tell his story, for it seems 
to me to show that even though criminals escape the 
justice of man, the heavy hand of God rests on them 
in this world, and that they suffer intensely, even 
when those closest to them never suspect. 



193 



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